AMERICAN  BIRDS 


American  Birds 


STUDIED  AND  PHOTOGRAPHED 
FROM  LIFE 


BY 

WILLIAM  LOVELL  FINLEY 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS  BY 

HERMAN  T.  BOHLMAN 


AND  THE  AUTHOR 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 
NEW  YORK::::::::::::::::::::  1907 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


Published,  October,  1907 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 


£ 

0 

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TO 

MY  MOTHER 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/americanbirdsOOfinl 


PREFATORY  NOTE 


An  important  and  sometimes  difficult  phase  in  the 
study  of  bird  life  is  to  observe  accurately  and  report 
without  false  interpretation  the  habits  and  actions  of 
birds.  The  naturalist  who  uses  the  camera  in  the  field 
often  has  the  advantage  of  hacking  his  observations  with 
proof  (not  an  unimportant  thing  in  nature  writing  of 
to-day),  and  if  he  produces  good  authentic  photographs, 
one  may  be  quite  sure  they  were  not  secured  without 
patient  waiting  and  a careful  study  of  his  subjects. 

In  this  book  no  attempt  has  been  made  to  include  all 
the  different  bird  families,  but  a series  of  representative 
birds  from  the  hummingbird  to  the  eagle  has  been  se- 
lected. Each  chapter  represents  a close  and  continued 
study  with  camera  and  notebook  at  the  home  of  some  bird 
or  group  of  birds, — a true  life  history  of  each  species. 
It  is  the  bird  as  a live  creature,  its  real  wild  personality 
and  character,  that  I have  tried  to  portray. 

Many  of  these  studies  were  made  in  the  West,  but  in 
the  list  of  birds  treated  an  effort  has  been  made  to  get  a 
selection  that  is  national  in  scope.  In  the  popular  mind 
a song  sparrow  is  a song  sparrow  from  ocean  to  ocean, 
yet  scientifically  he  represents  over  a dozen  subspecies, 

vii 


viii  Prefatory  Note 

according  to  the  part  of  the  country  in  which  he  lives. 
To  the  ordinary  bird  lover,  however,  a robin  is  the  same 
east  and  west,  and  the  same  is  true  of  the  chickadee, 
flicker,  wren,  grosbeak,  vireo,  warbler,  hawk,  and  others 
dealt  with  in  the  following  chapters. 

In  making  this  book,  I have  used  many  suggestions 
offered  by  my  wife,  and  I have  had  her  valued  assistance 
and  criticism. 

In  studying  bird  life,  I have  been  closely  associated 
with  Mr.  Herman  T.  Bohlman  since  boyhood.  He  has 
been  my  constant  companion  and  helper  in  the  field  every 
summer  for  the  past  ten  years.  I owe  much  to  him,  for 
this  book  embraces  the  chapters  in  his  experience  as  well 
as  in  mine. 

William  L.  Finley. 

Portland,  Oregon, 

August,  1907. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. 

The  Hummingbird  at  Home 

3 

II. 

The  Chickadee 

15 

III. 

Photographing  Flickers 

25 

IV. 

The  Yellow-throat  .... 

35 

V. 

A Family  of  Grosbeaks 

• • 45 

VI. 

The  Red-tailed  Hawk 

• • 57 

VII. 

Jack  Crow 

• • 69 

VIII. 

The  Owl,  Bird  of  Night  . 

81 

IX. 

Rearing  a Wren  Family 

91 

X. 

The  Weaver  of  the  West  . 

. 105 

XI 

Jimmy  the  Butcher-bird 

. 1 15 

XII 

The  Warbler  and  His  Ways 

127 

XIII. 

Kingfishers 

• *39 

XIV. 

Sparrow  Row  ...... 

. 151 

XV. 

Two  Studies  in  Blue  .... 

■ 163 

ix 


X 


Contents 


PAGE 


XVI. 

Basket  Makers,  the  Vireo 

and  Oriole 

• 05 

XVII. 

Phoebe  .... 

189 

XVIII. 

A Pair  of  Cousins — Robin 

and  Thrush 

• 199 

XIX. 

Gull  Habits 

. 21 1 

XX. 

In  a Heron  Village 

221 

XXI.  The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge 


235 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Young  Golden  Eagle,  not  quite  fully  fledged.  White  down 
still  showing  on  breast  ....  Frontispiece 

The  Hummer  saddled  her  cup  on  the  lowest  branch  of  a Fpf^G 
small  fir 5 

Mother  Hummingbird  on  edge  of  nest  about  to  brood 

young 5 

The  nestlings  began  to  fork  out  all  over  with  tiny  black 

horns 5 

The  Hummer  feeding  her  young  by  regurgitation.  She  jabs 
her  long  bill  down  the  baby’s  throat  and  injects  him 
with  honey 5 

Rufous  at  home 8 

Young  Hummer  on  the  clothes-line  in  the  back  yard  . . 12 

Young  Hummers  about  to  leave  nest 12 

Hummingbird  poised  in  mid-air,  taking  food  from  the 

geranium  cups 12 

Nest  and  eggs  of  Chickadee 17 

Chickadee  at  the  threshold  of  her  home  . . 17 

Mother  Chickadee  at  back  door  of  her  nest  . 17 

“Here  we  are!  We  are  seven!  ” 21 

Chickadees  in  a family  jar 21 

Photographing  the  Flickers’  nest 28 


xi 


xii  Illustrations 

FACING 

PAGE 

They  liked  to  cling  to  our  clothing 28 

Nest  and  eggs  of  Flicker,  with  side  of  stump  sawed  out  . 28 

“About  face!” 32 

A family  of  young  Flickers 32 

Flicker  at  the  front  door  of  her  home 32 

Male  Yellow-throat 39 

The  mother  came  with  a big  spider 39 

Nest  and  eggs  of  Yellow-throat 39 

The  mother  dropped  to  the  perch,  and  gave  the  nearer  one 

a big  caterpillar 40 

Young  Yellow-throats  quarreling 40 

Mother  Grosbeak  feeding  young 49 

Male  Grosbeak  feeding  young 49 

Nest  of  eggs  of  Black-headed  Grosbeak  ....  52 

Male  Grosbeak  at  nest 52 

Grosbeak  babies 52 

A full-grown  young  Red-tail.  The  tail  end  of  a carp  show- 
ing in  the  nest 57 

Taking  pictures  at  the  aerie  of  the  Red-tail,  120  feet  from 

the  ground 58 

At  the  foot  of  the  Hawk’s  tree 58 

Aerie  of  the  Red-tail  in  the  tall  cottonwood  ....  58 

Nest  and  eggs  of  the  Red-tail,  April  15th  ....  61 

Young  Red-tails  in  the  downy  stage,  May  3d  ...  61 

Full-grown  young  Red-tails  just  before  they  left  the  aerie, 

May  24th.  Piece  of  carp  showing  in  nest  ...  64 


Illustrations  xiii 

FACING 

PAGE 

Young  Crows  just  after  hatching 72 

Nest  full  of  young  Crows,  about  half-grown  ...  72 

Jack  Crow’s  perch  in  the  apple  tree 72 

“Granny” — a portrait  of  a half-grown  Barn  Owl  . . 81 

Full-grown  young  Barn  Owls  at  the  age  of  eight  weeks  . 85 

Nest  and  eggs  of  the  Barn  Owl 85 

Downy  young  Barn  Owls  about  three  weeks  old  . . 85 

A study  in  sentiment 88 

Barn  Owl  in  full  flight 88 

Half-grown  Barn  Owls,  about  six  weeks  old  ...  88 

Young  Barn  Owl  in  fighting  attitude 88 

Wide  awake  and  on  the  tip-toe  of  expectancy  ...  92 

Mother  Wren  at  the  nest  hole 96 

A young  Vigors  Wren  just  after  leaving  nest  in  the  dead  alder  96 

Feeding  young  Wrens 96 

The  parents  lit  wherever  they  found  the  children  . . 105 

Bush-tit  feeding  young  on  top  of  cap 105 

Awaiting  their  turns — rather  impatiently  ....  105 

Bush-tit  at  door  of  long  hanging  nest 108 

Young  Bush-tits  beside  long  pendent  nest  ....  108 

Male  Bush-tit  with  green  cutworm  for  young  . . . 108 

Jimmy 116 

Jimmy  eating  from  the  hand  of  his  mistress  . . .116 

Pair  of  young  Shrikes  or  Butcher-birds  . . . .116 

He  often  perched  in  the  pear  tree  . . . . . .116 


xiv  Illustrations 

FACING 

PAGE 


Nest  and  eggs  ot  Black-throated  Gray  Warbler  . . . 128 

Two  small  nestlings 128 

Disputing  while  mother  is  away 128 

The  mother  often  brought  in  green  cutworms  . 133 

The  gray  mother  rewarded  him  with  a mouthful  . .133 

She  did  not  forget  the  hungry,  more  timid  fledgling  in  the 

nest 133 

Taking  a portrait  of  a young  Kingfisher  ...  140 

The  Kingfisher  with  a broken  bill 140 

The  first  day  out  of  the  nest  fully  fledged  ....  140 

Six  of  the  frowsy-headed  Fishers  in  a pose  ....  145 


The  door  to  the  Kingfisher’s  home  showing  small  hole  to 
the  left  where  nest  was  first  started;  the  two  little  tracks 


at  the  bottom  made  by  the  feet  of  the  bird  . 145 

They  perched  on  the  projecting  snags  over  the  water  . 145 

Song  Sparrows  about  to  break  home  ties  ....  152 

An  English  Sparrow,  actually  making  a home  in  a hornet’s 

nest 156 

Nest  and  eggs  of  the  Song  Sparrow 156 

Song  Sparrow  on  a fence.  One  of  our  most  constant  singers  156 
The  White-crowned  Sparrow  father  with  food  for  young  . 160 

Female  White-crowned  Sparrow 160 

Female  White-crowned  Sparrow  with  food  for  young.  . 160 

A pair  of  White-crowned  Sparrows 160 

Young  Blue  Jay  in  nest 165 

The  Bluebird  mother  at  the  nest  hole 165 


Illustrations 


XV 


FACING 

PAGE 


Young  Blue  Jay  just  leaving  nest 168 

The  young  Bluebird  was  just  in  the  act  of  jumping  for  the 

worm  the  mother  held 172 

The  male  Bluebird  with  food  for  young  ....  172 

A Mother  Bluebird  poising  an  instant  after  feeding  her 

young 172 

Mother  Oriole  feeding  young  177 

Basket  nest  of  the  Oriole.  A door  has  been  cut  in  the  wall 

of  the  nest  to  show  the  eggs 177 

Young  Cassin  Vireos  on  branch  over  basket  nest  .177 

Cassin  Vireo  beside  nest 180 

Warbling  Vireo  feeding  young 180 

Warbling  Vireo  at  nest  after  feeding 180 

Phoebe  and  young  on  the  wire  of  the  fence  . . . .193 

Young  black  Phoebes  in  nest 193 

Two  young  black  Phoebes  just  after  leaving  nest  . . 193 

Mother  Phoebe  feeding  young 193 

The  Thrush’s  nest  among  the  ferns 200 

The  Thrush  on  her  nest 200 

The  Thrush  mother  at  the  nest  edge 200 

Young  Thrush  on  a wild  raspberry 200 

Young  Robins  at  home 208 

A Robin  in  the  cherry  tree 208 

Nest  and  eggs  of  the  Gull 212 

The  perfect  poise  of  the  Gull 212 

Young  Sea  Gulls  in  the  nest 


212 


xvi  Illustrations 

FACING 

PAGE 

A Gull  at  home  on  the  rocks 212 

A pair  of  Gulls  on  the  wharf 214 

Gull  just  catching  a bite  that  is  thrown  to  it  . . . 214 

Tame  Gulls  about  the  beach 214 

Gulls  perched  on  the  anchor  chain  awaiting  dinner  . . 216 

Great  Blue  Herons  coming  home  from  the  marshes  . 225 

Family  of  young  Great  Blue  Herons  in  tree-top  nest  . . 225 

Young  Great  Blue  Heron 225 

Great  Blue  Heron  in  top  of  sycamore  beside  nest  . 225 

Full-grown  young  Night  Heron 229 

Using  a reflex  camera  in  the  tree-tops  among  the  Herons  . 230 

Black-crowned  Night  Heron  on  nest 230 

Young  Night  Heron  clinging  to  limb 230 

Nest  and  eggs  of  the  Golden  Eagle 236 

Working  at  the  aerie  of  the  Golden  Eagle.  The  nestlings 

about  three-fourths  grown.  The  nest  is  five  feet  across  236 

Photographing  the  Golden  Eagle’s  nest  ....  236 

Downy  white  EagLes  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  days  . . 240 

Mottled  young  Eagles  at  the  age  of  forty  days  . . 240 

The  royal  twins  at  the  age  of  fifty-five  days  . 240 

Pair  of  young  Golden  Eagles  at  the  age  of  sixty-two  days  240 


THE  HUMMINGBIRD  AT  HOME 


I 


THE  HUMMINGBIRD  AT  HOME 

HE  dropped  into  our  garden  like  the  flying  fleck  from 
a rainbow,  probed  at  the  geranium  blossoms  and 
disappeared  as  the  flash  from  a whirling  mirror.  I had 
often  watched  him  and  listened  to  the  musical  hum  of  his 
wings,  as  it  rose  and  fell  in  sweetest  cadences.  I always 
had  the  unsatisfied  tinge  of  disappointment  as  I was  left 
gazing  at  the  trail  of  this  little  shooting  star  of  our  gar- 
den, that  hummed  as  well  as  glowed.  I longed  to  have 
him  and  call  him  mine.  Not  caged,  mercy  no ! I wanted 
his  lichen-shingled  home  in  the  Virginia  creeper,  his  two 
pearly  eggs,  the  horned  midgets,  the  little  fledglings,  the 
mother  as  she  plied  them  with  food,  and  I wanted  the 
glint  of  real  live  sunshine  that  hovered  and  poised  about 
the  flowers  and  got  away,  a minute  ethereal  sprite.  And 
more  than  that,  I wanted  to  have  forever  with  me  this 
mite  that  possesses  the  tiniest  soul  in  feathers. 

It  was  not  till  we  had  studied,  had  watched  and  waited 
with  the  camera  for  four  different  nesting  seasons  about 
the  hillside  and  along  the  creek,  that  we  succeeded  in  get- 
ting a series  of  pictures  of  the  home  life  of  the  little  Ru- 
fous Hummingbird  ( Selasphorus  rufus)1. 

The  first  year,  by  the  merest  chance,  we  found  a nest 

1 For  a description  of  the  more  important  species  in  each  family  the  reader  is  referred 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 


3 


4 


American  Birds 


that  had  been  placed  in  a wild  blackberry  brier  just 
above  the  creek.  The  green  fibres  and  the  lichens  that 
shingled  the  outside  of  the  tiny  cup  blended  exactly  with 
the  green  leaves  and  stems  of  the  vines.  The  cotton  lining 
of  the  nest  and  the  two  eggs  looked  precisely  like  the 
clusters  of  white  blossoms  surrounding.  One  might  have 
searched  all  over  the  vine  a dozen  times  and  yet  not  have 
discovered  the  nest. 

Many  a spider’s  suspension-bridge  the  hummingbird 
had  torn  away,  and  many  a mouthful  of  cotton  from  the 
balms  and  down  from  the  thistles,  she  collected.  As  I 
watched  her,  it  looked  to  me  as  if  a bill  for  probing  flowers 
was  not  suitable  for  weaving  nests.  Maybe  it  would  have 
been  more  convenient  at  times  if  it  had  been  shorter.  But 
she  wove  in  the  webs  and  fibres.  She  whirred  round  and 
round  and  shaped  the  side  of  her  cup  as  a potter  moulds 
his  masterpiece.  Then  she  thatched  the  outside  with  ir- 
regular bits  of  lichen. 

Another  pair  of  hummers  took  up  a homestead  on  the 
hillside.  1 he  bank  had  been  cut  down  to  build  a wood 
road,  but  the  place  had  been  abandoned  a generation  ago. 
The  hummer  saddled  her  tiny  cup  on  the  lowest  branch  of 
a small  fir  at  the  top  of  the  bank.  It  looked  as  if  she  had 
picked  out  a spot  to  please  the  photographer. 

When  the  weather  was  warm,  the  mother  didn’t  brood 
long  at  a time.  It  often  looked  to  me  as  if  it  was  only 
child’s  play  at  setting.  Five  minutes  was  such  a long, 
wearisome  spell  that  she  just  had  to  take  a turn  about  the 
garden.  I often  thought  the  tiny  eggs  would  chill  through 
before  she  returned,  and  I began  to  lose  hope  in  her  rest- 
less, shiftless  manner.  But  she  knew  better. 


5 


The  Hummingbird  at  Home 

At  first  the  little  capsules  had  such  a wonderfully 
delicate  flesh-tint  of  pink.  Then,  one  morning,  I stood 
over  the  nest  like  Thomas  of  old.  Some  one  had  replaced 
the  eggs  with  two  black  bugs ! It  might  have  been  a 
miracle.  There  was  a tiny  knob  on  the  end  of  each  bug 
that  looked  as  if  it  might  be  the  beginning  of  a bill.  Each 
little  creature  resembled  a black  bean  more  than  a bird, 
for  each  possessed  a light  streak  of  brown  along  the  mid- 
dle of  the  back.  They  couldn’t  be  beans,  for  they  were 
pulsing  with  life  in  a lumpy  sort  of  way.  I went  fre- 
quently to  look  at  them.  In  a few  days  the  nestlings 
began  to  fork  out  all  over  with  tiny  black  horns,  until 
they  would  have  looked  like  prickly  pears  had  they  been 
the  right  color.  At  the  next  stage  each  tiny  horn  began 
to  blossom  out  into  a spray  of  brown  down,  the  yellow  at 
one  end  grew  into  a bill,  the  black  skin  cracked  a trifle 
and  showed  two  eyes.  It  was  hard  to  see  just  how  those 
black  bugs  could  turn  to  birds,  but  day  after  day  the  mira- 
cle worked  till  I really  saw  two  young  hummingbirds. 

When  they  left  the  nest,  the  midgets  took  up  their 
abode  in  our  back  yard.  The  yard  was  crossed  by  three 
clothes-lines  for  perches,  and  the  large  apple  tree  in  the 
corner  gave  abundant  shade  for  the  hottest  days.  In  the 
centre  was  a round  bed  of  geraniums,  and  along  the  fence 
were  gladioli  and  nasturtiums.  The  youngsters  simply 
sucked  all  the  honey  out  of  every  flower  in  the  yard. 
Every  morning  I saw  them  going  the  rounds  and  collect- 
ing tribute  from  the  hearts  of  the  new  blossoms.  As  I 
came  and  went  about  the  house,  they  soon  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  presence  of  a person,  and  when  I filled  some 
flowers  with  sweet  water,  it  did  not  take  them  long  to 


6 


American  Birds 


recognize  that  the  flowers  in  the  hand  were  better  than 
those  on  the  bush. 

Then  one  day  I dipped  my  finger  in  sweetened  water 
and  held  it  up  to  one  of  the  twins  as  he  sat  on  the  line.  I 
was  amused,  for  such  a treat  came  to  him  as  a complete 
surprise.  Before  that,  when  a finger  was  put  up  near  his 
nose,  he  poked  it,  but  found  nothing  attractive;  now  his 
little  tongue  darted  out  and  hauled  in  the  sweet.  The  next 
instant  he  was  buzzing  about  my  face  and  neck,  poking 
for  honey.  He  seemed  as  enthusiastic  as  a man  who  had 
suddenly  struck  a new  mine,  for  it  all  looked  alike  to  him. 
If  one  part  was  sweet,  perhaps  it  all  was,  and  it  was  high 
time  he  was  knowing  this  new  source  of  food,  for  he  had 
seen  such  things  as  people  before. 

One  morning  I found  one  of  the  young  hummers  sit- 
ting muffled  up  on  the  clothes-line,  sound  asleep  in  the  sun. 
The  instant  I touched  the  line  he  awoke  as  if  from  a bad 
dream,  and  was  all  excitement.  I didn’t  have  any  sweet- 
ened water,  but  I picked  up  a ripe  plum,  tore  the  skin  away, 
and  held  it  up.  In  went  the  sharp  bill,  but  it  came  out 
with  thrice  the  rapidity.  Such  a face ! He  almost  fell 
backward  off  the  perch  and  nearly  shook  his  head  off, 
scolding  in  a little  squeaky  voice  all  the  time. 

It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  little  fellows,  for  each  had 
his  own  perch  on  a separate  line  and  every  once  in  a while, 
when  one  went  too  near  the  perch  of  the  other,  there  was 
a little  friendly  bout  and  they  darted  back  and  forth, 
chasing  each  other  in  the  sunshine.  But,  as  the  days 
passed,  I noticed  these  little  conflicts  seemed  to  grow  more 
serious.  One  would  dart  at  the  other,  and  round  and 
round  the  yard  they  would  go,  whizzing  and  screeching, 


The  Hummingbird  at  Home  7 

and  then  away.  Before  long  one  of  the  twins  ceased  to 
come  at  all. 

I don’t  believe  any  sun-worshipper  of  old  could  be 
more  devoted  to  his  idol  than  the  hummingbird.  He  lives 
in  the  sun  almost  as  a fish  does  in  the  water.  The  minute 
a cloud  crosses  the  face  of  the  sun  his  feathers  puff  up  and 
his  eye  loses  its  sparkle.  It’s  hard  for  a hummer  to  en- 
dure cold  and  cloudy  weather,  much  more  a season  of  rain. 
But  he  seems  to  adapt  himself  better  to  a rainy  climate 
than  many  other  birds.  He  has  profited  by  the  experience 
of  the  past.  Out  of  twenty-three  different  hummingbird 
nests,  I found  the  majority  built  so  that  they  were  entirely 
under  shelter.  Three  were  in  vines  directly  under  bridges, 
two  in  Virginia  creepers  under  porches,  another  in  a black- 
berry bush  under  a log,  and  so  on,  every  time  in  a place 
where  no  amount  of  rain  could  bother  them. 

I was  standing  on  the  hillside  one  bright  May  morn- 
ing when  two  hummers  caught  my  attention.  One  whirred 
downward  like  the  rush  of  a rocket.  He  ascended,  whirl- 
ing up  till  I could  see  only  a blurred  speck  in  the  blue. 
Then  he  dropped  headlong  like  a red  meteor,  with  his 
gorget  puffed  out  and  his  tail  spread  wide.  Instead  of 
striking  with  a burst  of  flying  sparks,  he  veered  just  above 
the  bushes  with  a sound  like  the  lash  of  a whip  drawn 
swiftly  through  the  air,  and,  as  the  impetus  carried  him  up, 
a high-pitched  musical  trill  burst  out  above  the  whir  of 
his  wings.  Again  and  again  he  swung  back  and  forth  like 
a comet  in  its  orbit.  If  he  was  courting,  his  aim  was  surely 
to  dazzle  and  move  with  irresistible  charm.  I think  his 
method  was  to  sweep  at  his  lady  love  with  a show  of  glit- 
tering brilliancy  and  gorgeous  display  and  win  her  heart 


American  Birds 


in  one  grand  charge.  He  must  have  won  her,  for  the  pair 
built  a home  in  the  Virginia  creeper.  They  took  one  of 
the  loose  strings  that  had  been  used  to  tie  up  the  vines 
and  wove  it  into  the  fabric  of  their  home;  if  the  floor 
beneath  gave  way,  they  would  surely  have  a support  from 
above. 

The  way  the  mother  would  light  on  her  nest  was  a 
marvel  to  me.  She  always  stopped  on  the  dead  twig  of 
a maple  before  dropping  to  her  home.  I saw  her  do  it 
several  times.  She  came  at  the  nest  like  a meteoric  streak. 
I held  my  breath  lest  the  whole  thing  be  splintered  to 
atoms,  for  she  hit  the  little  cup  without  the  slightest  pause 
that  I could  see,  yet  she  lit  as  lightly  as  the  touch  of  float- 
ing thistle-down. 

Below  the  hummer’s  nest  the  water  trickled  down 
the  basin  of  the  canon.  In  places  it  formed  pools  and 
dropped  over  the  rocky  edges.  One  of  these  tiny  basins 
was  the  hummer’s  bath-tub.  It  was  shallow  enough  at  the 
edge  for  her  to  wade.  For  a moment  her  wing-tips  and 
tail  would  skim  the  surface,  and  it  was  all  over.  She 
dressed  and  preened  with  all  the  formality  of  a queen. 
After  the  bath  I watched  her  circle  about  the  clusters  of 
geraniums  and  drink  at  the  honey  cups  of  the  columbine. 
She  seemed  only  to  will  to  be  at  a flower  and  she  was 
there;  the  hum  of  the  wings  was  all  that  told  the  secret. 
She  was  a marvel  in  the  air.  She  backed  as  easily  as  she 
darted  forward.  She  side-stepped,  rose,  and  dropped  as 
easily  as  she  poised. 

While  the  nestlings  were  very  young  the  mother  never 
left  them  alone  long  at  a time.  If  the  day  was  warm,  if 
the  sun  shone  on  the  nest,  the  mother  hovered  over  with 


9 


The  Hummingbird  at  Home 

wings  and  tail  spread  wide.  When  it  was  hottest,  I’ve 
seen  the  mother  sit  forward  on  the  nest  edge,  spread  her 
tail  till  she  showed  the  white  tips  of  her  feathers,  and 
keep  up  a constant  quivering,  fanning  motion  with  her 
wings  to  give  protection  to  the  frail  midgets  in  the  nest. 

When  I first  crawled  in  among  the  bushes  close  to  the 
nest  the  little  mother  darted  at  me  and  poised  a foot  from 
my  nose,  as  if  to  stare  me  out  of  countenance.  She  looked 
me  all  over  from  head  to  foot  twice,  then  she  seemed  con- 
vinced that  I was  harmless.  She  whirled  and  sat  on  the 
nest  edge.  The  bantlings  opened  wide  their  hungry 
mouths.  She  spread  her  tail  like  a flicker  and  braced 
herself  against  the  nest  side.  She  craned  her  neck  and 
drew  her  daggerlike  bill  straight  up  above  the  nest.  She 
plunged  it  down  the  baby’s  throat  to  the  hilt  and  started  a 
series  of  gestures  that  seemed  fashioned  to  puncture  him 
to  the  toes.  Then  she  stabbed  the  other  baby  till  it  made 
me  shudder.  It  looked  like  the  murder  of  the  infants. 
But  they  were  not  mangled  and  bloody:  they  were  get- 
ting a square  meal  after  the  usual  hummingbird  method 
of  regurgitation.  They  ran  out  their  slender  tongues  to 
lick  the  honey  from  their  lips.  How  they  liked  it!  Then 
she  settled  down  and  ruffled  up  her  breast  feathers  to  let 
her  babies  cuddle  close  to  her  naked  bosom.  Occasion- 
ally she  reached  under  to  caress  them  with  whisperings 
of  mother-love. 

I have  never  seen  a hummingbird  fledgling  fall  from 
the  nest  in  advance  of  his  strength  as  a robin  often  does. 
When  the  time  comes,  he  seems  to  spring  into  the  air  full 
grown,  clad  in  glittering  armor,  as  Minerva  sprang  from 
the  head  of  Jove.  While  I lay  quiet  in  the  bushes  I learned 


IO 


American  Birds 


the  reason.  One  youngster  sat  on  the  nest  edge,  stretched 
his  wings,  combed  his  tail,  lengthened  his  neck,  and 
preened  the  feathers  of  his  breast.  Then  he  tried  his 
wings.  They  began  slowly,  as  if  getting  up  steam.  He 
made  them  buzz  till  they  fairly  lifted  him  off  his  feet; 
he  had  to  hang  on  to  keep  from  going:  he  could  fly,  but 
the  time  was  not  ripe.  A little  gnat  buzzed  slowly  past 
within  two  inches  of  his  eyes.  The  nestling  instinctively 
stabbed  at  the  insect,  but  fell  short.  Each  bantling  took 
turns  at  practising  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  till  they  had 
mastered  the  art  of  balancing  and  rising  in  the  air. 

I have  never  known  exactly  what  to  think  of  the  male 
rufous.  I never  saw  such  an  enthusiastic  lover  during  the 
days  of  courtship  and  the  beginning  of  house  building. 
He  reminded  me  of  a diminutive  whirlwind  that  took 
everything  by  storm.  He  simply  ran  crazy-mad  in  love. 
As  soon  as  the  cottony  cup  was  finished  and  the  mother  had 
cradled  her  twin  white  eggs  the  father  disappeared.  He 
merely  dropped  out  of  existence,  as  Bradford  Torrey  says 
of  his  ruby-throat,  leaving  a widow  with  the  twins  on  her 
hands. 

This  always  seems  to  be  the  case,  for  at  the  differ- 
ent nests  where  I have  watched,  I never  but  once  saw  the 
male  hummer  near  the  nest  after  the  children  were  born. 
I was  lying  in  the  shade  of  the  bushes  a few  feet  from  the 
nest  one  afternoon.  For  two  whole  days  I had  been  watch- 
ing and  photographing  and  no  other  hummer  had  been 
near.  Suddenly  a male  darted  up  the  canon  and  lit  on  a 
dead  twig  opposite  the  nest.  He  hadn’t  settled  before 
the  mother  hurtled  at  him.  I jumped  up  to  watch.  They 
shot  up  and  down  the  hillside  like  winged  bullets,  through 


The  Hummingbird  at  Home  1 1 

trees  and  over  stumps,  the  mother  with  tail  spread,  all  the 
while  squealing  like  mad.  It  looked  like  the  chase  of  two 
meteors  that  were  likely  to  disappear  in  a shower  of 
sparks  had  they  struck  anything.  If  it  was  the  father,  he 
didn’t  get  a squint  at  the  bantlings.  If  it  was  a bachelor 
awooing,  he  got  a hot  reception. 

I can’t  believe  the  male  rufous  is  an  intentional  shirk 
and  deserter.  I think  that  somewhere  back  through  the 
generations  of  hummingbird  experience,  it  was  found  that 
such  bright  colors  and  such  devotion  about  the  home  were 
clews  unmistakable  for  enemies.  It  is,  therefore,  the  law 
of  self-protection  that  he  keep  away  entirely  during  the 
period  of  incubation  and  the  rearing  of  the  young. 

THE  HUMMINGBIRD  FAMILY 

This  is  a family  of  birds  easily  recognized  because  they  are  the 
smallest  in  size.  They  have  tiny  feet  and  long  slender  bills  to  suck  the 
nectar  from  the  flowers.  They  flit  through  the  air  with  great  rapidity, 
their  buzzing  wings  giving  the  bird  the  appearance  of  an  insect. 

Ruby-throated  Hummingbird  (Trochilus  colubris ):  Male,  above, 
green;  below,  grayish-white;  wings  and  tail,  ruddy  black;  shining  ruby- 
red  patch  on  throat.  Female,  colors  less  showy  and  throat-patch  lack- 
ing. Summer  resident  along  the  Atlantic  Coast,  arriving  the  first  of 
May  and  remaining  till  October.  Nest,  a tiny  cup  saddled  on  a limb. 
Eggs,  two  in  number,  pure  white  and  about  the  size  of  soup  beans. 

Rufous  Hummingbird  ( Selasphorus  rufus ):  Male,  general  color 
above  and  below,  bright  reddish-brown,  with  more  or  less  green  on  top 
of  head  and  sometimes  extending  on  back;  throat,  glancing  coppery  red, 
below  fading  into  white.  Female,  similar  to  male  but  more  brownish  in 
color;  throat  with  just  a tinge  of  red.  Summer  resident  of  the  north 
Pacific  Coast,  arriving  in  April.  Nest  and  habits,  similar  to  those  of 
Ruby-throat. 

Anna  Hummingbird  ( Calypte  anna);  Top  of  head  with  metallic, 


American  Birds 


i 2 

iridescent  scales  same  as  throat.  Feathers  of  throat  prolonged  in  a 
ruff.  Back  and  middle  tail  feathers  greenish  without  any  rufous  or 
white.  Tail  forked.  Adult  female  similar,  except  on  head  and  tail. 
No  metallic  scales  on  head,  but  greenish  like  back.  Throat  specked 
with  rose.  Common  resident  throughout  California. 


THE  CHICKADEE 


II 


THE  CHICKADEE 

THE  air  was  crisp.  The  snow  crunched  under  foot. 

The  waters  of  Fulton  Creek  slid  noiselessly 
through  the  lush  grasses  that  hung  along  the  bank.  The 
clump  of  tall  firs  up  the  hillside  was  roughly  inked  against 
the  gray  clouds.  The  dead  hush  of  winter  had  crept  up 
the  canon.  Suddenly  a sound  like  the  tinkling  of  tiny 
bell-voices  broke  the  stillness.  Across  the  long,  white 
stretch  between  the  pointed  firs  scurried  a whole  troop  of 
black  and  white  fairies. 

I was  in  the  same  place  a little  over  three  months  later. 
The  young  firs  stood  in  rows  rising  from  the  creek  side, 
each  topped  with  the  brighter  green  of  the  new  spring 
growth.  The  alders  and  dogwoods  had  suddenly  split 
their  buds,  as  if  shame  had  shaken  their  naked  limbs.  The 
open  glade  shimmered  with  the  diamond  drops  on  the  ten- 
der shoots  of  new  grass.  The  air  quivered  with  each 
sound  and  motion.  Everything  throbbed  with  expectancy. 
Where  I had  seen  a dozen  fairies,  now  I saw  only  two. 
Where  the  rest  of  the  troop  had  gone,  I do  not  know. 
This  newly  wedded  pair  seemed  happy  and  contented. 

I stood  there  and  watched  as  one  of  the  midgets 
whirled  over  to  a nearer  bush  What  was  he  doing  there? 
He  fidgeted  about  as  if  he  had  put  something  away  and 
couldn’t  remember  just  where  he  had  laid  it.  I looked 

*5 


\6 


American  Birds 


around,  but  saw  nothing  save  the  wreck  of  an  old  alder; 
dead,  rotten,  useless,  broken  off  five  feet  from  the  ground; 
not  even  good  for  fire-wood;  worm-eaten  at  the  bottom, 
almost  ready  to  return  as  earth  to  the  ground  from  which 
it  had  sprung.  Rotten,  but  not  entirely  useless — it  gave 
me  an  idea. 

The  little  Black-capped  Titmouse  or  Chickadee  ( Partis 
atricapillus  Occident alis)  is  the  most  constant  feathered 
friend  I have,  for  there  is  hardly  a day  in  the  year 
that  I cannot  find  him,  whether  it  be  hot  or  cold.  On 
some  of  my  tramps  in  the  rain  and  snow  the  chickadee 
has  been  the  only  bit  of  bird  life  that  has  cheered  my 
way.  I have  never  found  the  chickadee  moody.  I’ve 
seen  him  when  it  was  so  cold  I couldn’t  understand  just 
how  he  kept  his  tiny  body  warm;  when  it  looked  like 
all  hunting  for  him  and  no  game.  If  he  was  hungry, 
he  didn’t  show  it.  The  wren  goes  south  and  lives  in 
sunshine  and  plenty  all  winter.  He  goes  wild  with  de- 
light when  he  returns  home  in  the  spring.  The  chickadee 
winters  in  the  north.  He  endures  the  cold  and  hunger 
of  the  dreary  months.  In  the  spring  his  cheer  seems  just 
the  same.  He  doesn’t  bubble  over.  He  takes  his  abun- 
dance in  quiet  and  contentment. 

Chickadee  never  seems  to  have  the  blues,  but  for  all 
his  cheer  and  happiness,  the  loneliest,  saddest  bird  I ever 
saw  was  a chickadee  who  had  lost  his  mate.  It  was  cold 
and  darkening.  I heard  the  sad,  drawn-out  “ phee-bee  ” 
note  up  the  ravine.  As  he  came  nearer,  it  sounded  like  a 
funeral  song.  The  bewildered  little  fellow  was  all  aflut- 
ter and  uneasy,  flitting  from  tree  to  tree  and  calling,  call- 
ing. I can  hear  the  echo  yet,  calling  for  his  love. 


The  Chickadee 


!7 


The  glade  up  Fulton  Creek  just  suited  the  chickadees. 
It  was  rarely  invaded  by  troublesome  people.  Chickadee 
likes  human  society  when  the  snow  comes  and  food  grows 
scarce  in  the  woods,  but  just  as  soon  as  he  falls  in  love  and 
his  mind  turns  to  housekeeping,  he  looks  for  a quiet  nook. 

The  next  time  I strolled  up  the  creek,  one  of  a newly 
wedded  pair  suddenly  met  me  just  where  the  path  branched 
a few  yards  below  the  alder  stump.  I didn’t  see  him  come, 
but  he  appeared  right  on  the  limbs  of  the  maple  over  the 
trail  that  led  aw7ay  from  the  nest.  He  didn’t  see  me  at 
all ! The  little  trickster ! He  was  very  industriously 
pecking  at  nothing  I could  see  with  my  field-glass.  As 
soon  as  I stopped,  he  began  turning  and  twisting,  stretch- 
ing his  neck  to  look  under  a leaf.  He  hung  by  his  toes, 
head  down,  and  swung  back  up  like  a circus  performer. 
Then  he  swung  head  down  again,  dropped,  and  lit  right 
side  up  on  the  branch  below.  Fie  made  a high  jump  of 
over  a foot,  but  grabbed  nothing.  And  such  unconcern ! 
He  never  looked  at  me.  I thought  of  the  lad  across  the 
street,  who,  by  his  stunts,  used  to  coax  me  out  of  the  yard 
against  orders.  The  little  black-cap  drew  me  now  as  the 
boy  did  then.  “ You’re  entertaining,  but  not  so  clever  as 
you  seem,”  I said,  as  I followed  him  off  down  the  wrong 
path  away  from  his  nest. 

I shall  never  forget  the  day  we  trudged  up  with  the 
camera  to  get  a picture  of  the  eggs.  When  we  reached 
the  chickadee  villa,  the  mother  was  at  home.  I knocked 
at  the  base,  so  she  would  leave.  Then  I shook  the  stub, 
but  she  did  not  take  the  hint.  I took  a little  twig  and 
poked  in,  trying  to  lift  her  up.  She  met  my  advance  with 
a funny  little  sound,  like  a mad  cat  in  a box.  Drive  her 


1 8 


American  Birds 


out  of  her  own  house?  Well,  I should  say  not!  Finally 
I cut  a piece  right  out  of  the  back  part  of  her  house, 
where  the  wall  was  thin.  There  she  sat  without  moving, 
while  I focused  my  camera.  The  little  black  eyes  showed 
a brave  spirit  that  I have  seldom  seen  in  a bird.  I care- 
fully slid  the  piece  back  again  and  locked  it  with  a string. 

I knew  she  had  done  a heroic  deed.  I sat  down  under 
the  tree  to  watch.  As  soon  as  all  was  quiet,  she  shot  from 
the  door  like  a winged  bullet  and  struck  right  on  the  limb 
beside  her  mate  who  had  been  dee-dee-ing  to  her  all  the 
while.  Of  course,  birds  do  not  feel  as  we  feel,  but  I don’t 
believe  a sweetheart  ever  met  her  lover  returning  from  a 
field  of  battle  with  a greater  show  of  joy.  They  simply 
threw  themselves  into  each  other’s  arms.  It  wasn’t  a silent 
meeting  either;  there  were  real  cracks  of  kisses  and  twit- 
ters of  praise.  Chickadees  are  not  human  by  any  means, 
but  had  she  not  defended  her  home  all  alone  against  a 
giant? 

A day  or  so  later,  I really  did  catch  both  the  owners 
away  from  the  nest  and  I counted  one — two — three — four 
— five — six — seven  dotted  eggs  on  a cottony  couch.  When 
the  mother  returned  she  seemed  so  worried  that  I closed 
the  door  and  started  to  leave  in  a hurry.  But  I hadn’t 
stepped  away  more  than  ten  feet  before  she  was  clinging 
at  the  doorway,  and  a moment  later  she  popped  into  the 
hole  and  continued  her  brooding. 

What  if  every  egg  should  hatch,  I thought.  What 
could  any  mother  and  father  do  with  seven  children,  all 
the  same  age?  Think  of  it!  Two  pair  of  twins  and  a 
set  of  triplets,  and  not  one  of  the  youngsters  able  to  assist 
in  caring  for  brother  or  sister! 


The  Chickadee 


*9 


I have  often  watched  old  birds  feeding  young,  but  I 
never  had  a good  idea  of  just  the  amount  of  insect  food 
they  did  consume  till  I watched  the  chickadees  for  a few 
days  after  the  eggs  hatched.  Both  birds  fed  in  turn,  and 
the  turns  were  anywhere  from  three  to  ten  minutes  apart. 
From  the  time  the  chicks  were  born,  the  parents  were  busy 
from  daylight  to  dark.  They  searched  every  leaf  and  twig 
along  the  limbs  and  trunk  to  the  roots  of  every  tree,  under 
bark  and  moss,  in  ferns,  bushes,  and  vines,  and  they  hunted 
thoroughly.  Such  numbers  of  spiders  they  ate,  and  green 
caterpillars,  brown  worms,  grasshoppers,  daddy-long-legs, 
moths,  millers,  and  flies,  besides  untold  numbers  of  eggs 
and  larvae.  Everything  was  grist  that  went  to  the  chicka- 
dee mill.  The  way  they  could  turn  insects  into  feathers, 
placing  the  black  and  white  pigment  just  where  it  be- 
longed, was  simply  marvelous.  A baby  chickadee  changes 
about  as  much  in  a day  as  a human  baby  does  in  a year. 

One  can  readily  count  up  how  much  insect  life  is  de- 
stroyed each  day,  when  the  parents  return  every  few  min- 
utes with  food.  Think  how  closely  each  bush  and  tree  is 
gone  over  everywhere  about  the  nest.  One  chickadee  nest 
in  an  orchard  means  the  death  of  hundreds  and  maybe 
thousands  of  harmful  insects  and  worms  every  day.  It 
more  than  pays  for  all  the  fruit  the  birds  can  eat  in  half 
a dozen  seasons.  But  there  are  generally  other  birds  nest- 
ing about.  Think  of  the  time  when  seven  young  chicka- 
dees are  turned  loose  to  search  among  the  trees  day  after 
day  during  the  entire  year. 

I spent  two  whole  days  at  the  nest  before  the  chicks 
were  ready  to  leave  home.  The  owners  of  the  stump 
seemed  to  think  we  had  placed  the  camera  there  for  their 


20 


American  Birds 


use,  as  they  generally  perched  on  the  tripod.  Then  they 
always  stopped  a moment  at  the  door  before  entering. 
The  seven  eggs  had  pretty  well  filled  the  nest.  Now  it 
looked  too  full.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  the  little  chicks 
kept  on  growing  they  would  either  have  to  be  stacked  up 
one  on  top  of  the  other  or  lodged  in  an  upper  story. 

Once  the  mother  came  with  a white  miller.  She  had 
pulled  the  wings  off,  but  even  then  it  looked  entirely  too 
big  for  a baby’s  mouth.  Not  a single  nestling  but  wanted 
to  try  it.  When  the  mother  left,  I looked  in  and  one  little 
fellow  sat  with  the  miller  bulging  out  of  his  mouth.  It 
wouldn’t  go  down  any  further,  but  he  lay  back  quite  happy. 
His  stomach  was  working  at  a high  speed  below;  I saw 
the  miller  slowly  slipping  down  until  the  last  leg  went  in 
as  the  chick  gave  a big  gulp. 

The  day  was  warm.  We  built  a little  perch  at  the 
front  door,  and  set  out  one  of  the  youngsters  blinking 
in  the  sunshine.  He  soon  felt  at  home.  He  liked  it  and 
seemed  quite  perked  up  and  proud.  Then  we  set  out  an- 
other and  another — seven  in  all.  It  looked  like  a pub- 
lic dressing-room.  Think  of  being  crowded  in  the  tiny 
hole  of  a hollow,  punky  stump  with  six  brothers  and 
sisters;  jammed  together  with  your  clothes  all  wrinkled, 
not  even  room  to  stretch  out,  let  alone  comb  and  dress 
and  clean  yourself  properly.  They  gave  us  a real  chicka- 
dee concert,  each  trying  to  outdo  the  other.  “ Here-we- 
are!  We-are-seven ! Seven-are-we-dee-dee-dee ! ” Even 
the  mother  and  father  sounded  a “ Tsic-a-dee-dee  ” of 
joy  as  they  fed  from  the  perch  instead  of  diving  down 
into  the  little  dungeon. 

I believe  there’s  more  family  love  in  the  chickadee 


The  Chickadee 


2 1 


household  than  in  any  bird  home  I have  visited.  I have 
seen  a young  flicker  jab  at  his  brother  in  real  madness,  but 
I never  saw  two  chickadees  come  to  blows.  Of  course, 
when  young  chickadees  are  hungry,  they  will  cry  for  food 
just  as  any  child.  Not  one  of  the  seven  was  the  least  back- 
ward in  coming  forward  when  a morsel  of  food  was  in 
sight.  Each  honestly  believed  his  turn  was  next.  Once 
or  twice  I saw  what  looked  like  a family  jar.  Each  one 
of  the  seven  was  crying  for  food  as  the  mother  flew  over. 
She  herself  must  have  forgotten  whose  turn  it  was,  for 
she  hung  beneath  the  perch  a moment  to  think.  How  she 
ever  told  one  from  the  other,  so  as  to  divide  the  meals 
evenly,  I don’t  know.  There  was  only  one  chick  I could 
recognize,  and  that  wras  pigeon-toed,  tousled-headed 
Johnnie.  He  was  the  runt  of  the  family,  and  spoiled,  if 
ever  a bird  was  spoiled. 

We  trudged  up  the  canon  early  the  next  morning. 
Four  of  the  flock  had  left  the  nest  and  taken  to  the 
bushes.  Three  stayed  at  the  stump  w-hile  we  set  the  cam- 
era. It  is  rarely  indeed  that  one  catches  a real  clear  pho- 
tograph of  bird  home  life  such  as  the  mother  placing  a 
green  cutworm  in  the  mouth  of  a hungry  chick;  a satisfied 
look  on  the  face  of  the  second  bantling  w7ho  had  just  got 
a morsel;  and  hope  on  the  face  of  the  third  who  is  sure 
to  get  the  next  mouthful:  the  present,  the  past,  and  the 
future  in  one  scene. 

There  are  perhaps  many  other  families  of  chickadees 
that  live  and  hunt  through  the  trees  along  Fulton  Creek. 
I rarely  visit  the  place  that  I do  not  hear  them.  But  ever 
since  the  seven  left  the  old  alder  stump  that  has  now 
fallen  to  pieces,  I never  see  a flock  about  this  haunt  that 


22 


American  Birds 


they  do  not  greet  me  with  the  same  song  I heard  three 
years  ago,  “ Tsic-a-dee-dee  ! Seven-are-we ! ” 

THE  CHICKADEE  OR  TITMOUSE  FAMILY 

The  Chickadee  is  one  of  our  few  winter  residents;  he  is  hardy,  al- 
ways cheerful,  and  braves  the  coldest  winter  spell.  He  is  musical  after 
his  own  fashion,  always  active  and  restless,  heedless  of  man’s  presence. 
He  is  only  five  inches  long  with  a black  and  white  coat,  and  is  generally 
seen  hanging  head  down,  hunting  insect  eggs  and  bugs  under  the  limbs 
and  leaves. 

Chickadee  ( Parus  atncapillus ):  Male  and  female,  top  of  head  and 
back  of  neck  and  throat,  black;  sides  of  head,  white;  back,  ashy  or 
grayish;  under  parts,  whitish.  Resident  of  eastern  North  America  north 
of  the  Potomac,  winter  as  well  as  summer.  Nest,  in  a hole  in  a stump, 
made  of  wool,  hair,  and  feathers.  Eggs,  six  to  nine,  white  speckled  with 
brown. 

Western  Chickadee  ( Parus  atricapillus  occidentalis ):  Almost  identi- 
cal with  above.  Lives  on  the  Pacific  Coast  from  California  to  Alaska. 


PHOTOGRAPHING  FLICKERS 


Ill 


PHOTOGRAPHING  FLICKERS 

IF  I were  the  owner  of  the  firs  about  the  reed-covered 
pond  and  were  drawing  rental  from  the  bird  tenants, 
I would  rather  take  a lease  from  the  Flickers  ( Colaptes 
cafer  collaris)  than  any  other  feathered  family.  They’re 
not  always  amoving  south  and  leaving  your  trees  without 
an  occupant  as  soon  as  the  frost  nips.  When  the  ther- 
mometer drops  low  and  the  kinglets  are  twittering  too 
softly  to  be  heard  more  than  a few  yards  away,  “ high- 
hole  ” always  sends  a full  share  of  bird  cheer  up  and  down 
the  scattering  woods.  Nor  is  he  half  as  particular  as  some 
of  the  other  bird  residents.  He  takes  the  best  of  the  few 
remaining  stumps  and  seems  satisfied.  Once  he  pounded 
out  a wooden  home  just  below  his  last  year’s  house.  His 
wife  didn’t  like  it  very  much,  but  they  settled  it  in  some 
way  and  reared  a thriving  family. 

One  January  day  I was  wading  through  the  wet  grass 
and  low  bushes  near  Ladd’s  farm  when  a flicker  flapped 
up  almost  in  my  face.  His  mate  followed.  I found  sev- 
eral holes  wdiere  they  had  been  driving  into  the  ground  for 
food.  The  bug  supply  under  the  bark  was  low,  or  maybe 
it  was  purely  a voluntary  change  of  diet. 

“ Red-hammer”  of  the  West,  like  “yellow-hammer,” 
his  eastern  cousin,  is  a rather  odd  mixture  of  woodpecker 
and  robin.  The  Picus  family  in  general  takes  its  food 

25 


26 


American  Birds 


from  the  bark  of  a tree,  but  red-hammer  often  feeds  on 
berries,  grain,  and  earthworms.  According  to  wood- 
pecker taste,  a bird  should  cling  to  the  side  of  a tree, 
clutching  two  toes  above  and  two  below,  with  body 
propped  by  his  tail,  but  high-hole  is  independent,  and 
often  sits  on  a limb  as  an  ordinary  percher.  Nature  has 
given  the  flicker  a bill  slightly  curved  instead  of  straight 
and  chisel-shaped.  But  why  does  this  westerner  parade 
the  woods  in  a jaunty  suit  lined  with  red,  while  his 
eastern  cousin  flaunts  from  tree  to  tree  in  a yellow-lined 
jacket? 

High-hole  is  somewhat  of  a barbarian  among  the 
Romans  about  the  pond.  He  knows  nothing  about,  nor 
does  he  care  for,  the  finer  arts  of  architecture  and  music. 
A dark  den  suits  him  as  well  as  a mansion.  He  has  a voice 
like  the  “ holler  ” of  a lusty-lunged,  whole-souled  plough- 
boy.  As  he  swings  from  stump  to  stump  his  wings  flash 
red  like  a beacon  light.  He  shouts  “ Yar-up!  Yar-up! 
Yar-up!  ” from  the  tree-top,  or  occasionally  he  breaks  the 
woody  silence  with  a prolonged  jovial  “ Ha  ! Ha!  Ha!” 

There’s  always  a sentiment  of  the  farm  about  the 
flicker.  Occasionally  I see  one  of  the  birds  here  in  the 
midst  of  the  city,  but  he  always  reminds  me  of  a back- 
woods  boy  on  a visit.  He  never  seems  at  home  among 
the  clanging  of  the  cars  and  the  rumbling  of  the  wagons 
along  the  paved  streets.  A few  days  ago  I saw  one  of 
these  woodpeckers  light  on  the  side  of  a brick  building 
above  the  busy  street.  I knew  it  was  an  inexperienced 
bird,  for  he  began  jabbing  at  the  tin  cornice  in  a way  that 
seemed  to  me  was  likely  to  splinter  his  bill.  It  resounded 
like  a drum.  He  cocked  his  head  with  a surprised  expres- 


27 


Photographing  Flickers 

sion  that  seemed  to  say,  “ That’s  the  funniest  tree  I ever 
tapped.”  Then  he  flipped  across  the  street  and  started 
a tattoo  on  a window-sill,  but  some  one  pushed  up  the 
window  to  see  who  was  trying  to  get  in  and  almost  scared 
the  youngster  witless.  The  last  I saw  of  him  he  was  tak- 
ing a bee-line  straight  across  the  block  for  the  hills. 

With  a tinge  of  regret  I have  watched  the  clumps  of 
fir  thinned  year  after  year.  High-hole  does  not  care  a 
snap.  He  can  bore  a hole  in  a church  steeple  as  easily  as 
in  a fir  snag.  The  moral  influence  on  his  family  is  about 
the  same  in  one  place  as  the  other.  For  two  seasons  I 
watched  a red-shafted  flicker  rear  his  family  in  the  tall 
steeple  of  a Presbyterian  Church  in  the  heart  of  the  city. 
I was  always  a little  afraid  lest  the  strait-laced  divine 
discover  the  brood  of  squabbling  youngsters  sheltered 
under  the  sacred  roof,  seize  a scourge,  and  drive  them 
from  the  temple.  They  worked  as  hard  on  the  Sabbath 
as  any  other  day  of  the  week.  Another  flicker  dug  a 
home  in  one  of  the  maples  that  bordered  the  walk  about  a 
large  grammar-school.  The  poor  hen  was  harassed  half 
to  death  by  attention  from  the  boys,  but  she  reared  four 
lusty  shouters. 

I have  known  high-hole  for  years.  For  two  seasons 
we  have  photographed  him  and  his  family.  He  has  punc- 
tured every  old  stump  about  the  pond  with  doors  and 
windows.  Every  one  of  these  old  boles  is  dead  to  the 
root,  yet  I generally  find  them  throbbing  at  the  heart  more 
vitally  than  the  greenest  neighbor  in  the  clump.  Red- 
hammer  is  not  altogether  idle  during  the  months  of  rain 
and  snow.  When  he  does  work,  he  goes  like  an  automatic 
toy  wound  to  the  limit.  As  soon  as  the  weather  brightens 


28 


American  Birds 


into  the  first  warm,  springlike  day,  he  and  his  wife  have 
a wooden  house  well  near  its  completion.  Last  spring 
when  I first  discovered  the  brand-new  hole  at  the  top  of 
the  stump,  the  lady  of  the  house  sidled  around  the  tree 
like  a bashful  school-girl,  always  keeping  on  the  opposite 
side  and  peeking  around  the  curve. 

Few  birds  have  larger  families  than  high-hole.  But, 
were  it  not  for  the  number  of  his  family,  how  could  he 
hold  his  own  among  so  many  enemies?  His  conspicuous 
size  and  color  always  draw  the  aim  of  the  small  boy’s 
gun,  and  every  village  lad  in  the  land  has  collected  flicker’s 
eggs.  He  is  a fellow  of  resources,  however.  If  his  home 
is  robbed,  his  wife  soon  lays  another  set  of  eggs.  It  is 
on  record  that  one  pair,  when  tested  by  the  removal  of 
egg  after  egg,  laid  seventy-one  eggs  in  seventy-three  days. 

In  the  hollowed  heart  of  the  punky  fir  on  a bed  of 
fine  wood  bits,  lay  seven  glossy  eggs,  inanimate,  but  full 
of  promise.  They  all  had  the  vital  flesh  tinge  of  pink. 
Each  imprisoned  a precious  spark  .of  life  to  be  fanned 
by  the  magic  brooding  of  the  mother’s  breast. 

Red-hammer  had  grown  quite  trustful.  We  got  a 
ladder  twenty-five  feet  long  which  reached  about  up  to 
the  nest.  The  eggs  had  been  placed  a foot  and  a half 
below  the  round  entrance.  On  the  opposite  side  from  the 
entrance  and  on  a level  with  the  eggs,  we  sawed  out  a back 
door,  giving  a good  view  of  the  living  room  and  letting 
in  a little  sunlight.  With  the  camera  ready  to  snap,  firmly 
fastened  to  a small  board,  we  climbed  the  tree.  Holding 
it  out  to  a measured  distance,  we  aimed  it  downward  at 
the  eggs.  The  first  attempt  came  nearer  landing  camera 
and  all  in  a heap  in  the  shallow  water  of  the  pond  than 


Photographing  Flickers  29 

getting  a photograph  of  the  eggs,  but  after  several  trials 
a good  picture  was  taken. 

Neither  mother  nor  father  flicker  seemed  exactly  to 
understand  our  right  of  making  free  with  their  home. 
The  former  nervously  returned  to  her  nest  each  time  we 
descended  the  tree.  She  climbed  in  the  front  door.  It 
was  easy  enough  to  recognize  her  own  eggs,  but  that  new 
door  was  a puzzle.  She  had  to  slip  out  and  examine  it 
half  a dozen  times,  returning  always  by  the  round  door 
above.  The  change  made  her  a little  uneasy,  but  she  soon 
settled  down,  satisfied  to  brood  and  watch  her  gossiping 
neighbors  at  the  same  time.  After  we  fastened  up  the 
new  entrance,  flicker  affairs  went  on  as  usual. 

Some  of  our  later  visits  were  certainly  a little  tiresome 
for  the  brooding  mother.  A knock  at  the  foot  of  the  tree 
was  generally  followed  by  an  impatient  eye  and  a danger- 
ous-looking bill  at  the  threshold — the  greeting  a busy 
housewife  gives  an  intruding  peddler.  With  a bored  look 
she  flipped  across  the  way  and  sat  while  the  visitors  nosed 
about  and  prowled  in  her  house. 

Those  naked  baby  flickers  were  the  ugliest  little  bird 
youngsters  I ever  saw.  High-hole  did  not  carry  their  din- 
ners in  her  bill,  as  a warbler  feeds  her  young.  She  nour- 
ished the  bantlings  with  the  partially  digested  food  of  her 
own  craw.  She  jabbed  her  long  sharp  beak  down  their 
throats  till  I thought  she  would  stab  them  to  death.  Yet 
they  liked  it.  They  called  for  more  with  a peculiar  hiss- 
ing noise.  A few  feet  away  it  sounded  more  like  the  buzz 
of  maddened  bees.  I always  feel  like  jumping  to  the 
ground  and  taking  to  the  timber  the  instant  that  swarmy 
sound  strikes  my  ear.  It’s  not  exactly  cowardice,  but  bird 


3° 


American  Birds 


curiosity  once  led  me  to  pry  into  a hornet’s  nest  in  a hol- 
low log.  I’ve  been  a little  skittish  since.  I am  not  sure 
of  Nature’s  reason  for  providing  woodpeckers  with  such 
a peculiar  baby  prattle,  but  I know  the  sound  has  scared 
more  than  one  boy  into  shying  away  from  a flicker’s  home. 

In  the  heart  of  the  fir  the  growth  was  rapid.  The 
thin  drawn  lids  of  each  callow  prisoner  cracked  and  re- 
vealed a pair  of  black  eyes.  Feathers  sprouted  and  spread 
from  the  rolls  of  fatty  tissue  up  and  down  their  backs. 
Each  bill  pointed  ever  upward  to  the  light;  the  instant 
the  doorway  darkened,  each  sprung  open  to  its  limit.  The 
nestlings  soon  took  to  climbing  the  walls,  not  solely  for 
amusement.  The  sharp  ears  of  each  youngster  caught 
the  scrape  of  the  mother’s  claws  the  instant  she  clutched 
the  bark  of  the  tree,  and  this  sound  always  gave  rise  to 
a neck-stretching  scramble  toward  the  door.  The  young 
woodpeckers  had  little  chance  of  exercising  their  wings. 
The  next  time  we  climbed  the  tree  with  the  camera  they 
were  apparently  full  grown,  strong  in  climbing,  but,  to  our 
advantage,  weak  in  flying. 

We  are  not  likely  to  forget  the  day  we  climbed  the 
stump  to  picture  the  young  flickers.  The  full  meaning  of 
the  task  had  not  struck  us.  Nor  had  the  enjoyment  of 
it  dawned  upon  the  fledglings.  They  were  bashful  at  first, 
but  after  a little  coaxing  and  fondling  they  were  as  tame 
as  pet  pussies.  They  climbed  out  and  crowded  the  stump- 
top,  where  they  sat  in  the  warm  sunshine  stretching,  fluff- 
ing, bowing,  and  preening. 

They  liked  to  cling  to  our  clothing.  A coat  sleeve 
was  easier  climbing  than  a tree  trunk,  and  it  was  softer  to 
penetrate  with  a peck.  There  was  a streak  of  ambition 


31 


Photographing  Flickers 

in  the  soul  of  each  flicker  that  would  put  most  people  to 
shame.  They  climbed  continually,  and  always  toward  the 
top.  Up  our  arms  to  our  shoulders  they  would  go,  and 
then  to  our  heads.  Just  at  the  instant  one’s  mind  and 
energy  were  directed  toward  balancing  in  the  tree-top,  he 
was  sure  to  get  a series  of  jabs  in  the  cheek.  One  might 
endure  the  scratch  of  the  sharp  claws  as  they  penetrated 
his  clothing,  bur  he  would  be  likely  to  cringe  under  the 
sting  of  a chisel-shaped  drill  boring  with  rapid  blows  into 
his  arm. 

I couldn’t  see  any  use  in  the  parents  working  them- 
selves to  death  feeding  such  ravenous,  full-grown  children. 
“ They  might  as  well  hustle  a little  for  themselves,”  I 
said,  as  I climbed  the  stump  next  morning.  We  took  all 
five  of  the  fledglings  to  the  ground.  Wild  strawberries 
they  gulped  down  with  a decided  relish,  until  we  got  tired 
and  cut  short  the  supply.  We  soon  had  a regular  yar- 
uping  concert.  One  young  cock  clutched  the  bark  with 
his  claws,  his  stiff-pointed  tail  feathers  propping  his  body 
in  the  natural  woodpecker  position,  as  he  hitched  nestward 
up  the  tree,  followed  by  his  mates. 

Afterward  when  I set  all  five  on  a near-by  limb  with 
the  order  “Company,  attention!  Right  dress!”  they 
were  the  rawest  and  most  unruly  recruits  I ever  handled. 
If  the  upper  guide  did  not  keep  moving,  he  received  a 
gouge  from  his  impatient  neighbor  below.  This  was  sure 
either  to  set  the  whole  squad  in  motion,  or  to  start  a fam- 
ily brawl,  without  regard  to  the  annoyance  of  the  bird 
photographer.  “About,  face!”  was  executed  with  the 
same  lack  of  discipline  on  the  part  of  the  feathered  com- 
pany. The  captain  stepped  meekly  around  to  the  other 


American  Birds 


32 

side  of  the  limb  and  planted  himself  and  camera  in  the 
rear. 

During  our  early  acquaintance  the  fledgling  flickers 
savagely  resisted  our  attempts  to  coax  them  out  of  their 
home.  After  a few  hours  in  the  warm  sunshine,  they 
fought  every  effort  to  put  them  back.  They  were  no 
longer  nestlings,  for  a bit  of  confidence  had  turned  them 
into  full-fledged  birds  of  the  world. 

The  following  day  it  was  noticed  that  the  flicker  popu- 
lation of  the  fir  woods  had  increased.  Here  and  there 
one  caught  sight  of  a bird  bearing  the  emblem  of  a black 
crescent  hung  about  his  neck.  Juvenile  yar-ups  echoed 
among  the  scattered  trees  and  over  the  pond.  Occasion- 
ally there  were  flashes  of  red  as  wings  opened  and  closed 
and  a bird  swung  through  the  air  in  wavelike  flight. 

THE  WOODPECKER  FAMILY 

The  Woodpeckers  are  easily  recognized  because  they  habitually 
cling  to  the  bark  and  climb  straight  up  the  limbs,  pecking  for  eggs  of 
insects  and  worms.  The  bill  is  strong  and  chisel-shaped ; the  tail  feathers 
stiff  and  bristly.  The  woodpecker  foot  differs  from  that  of  other  birds  in 
that  it  has  two  toes  behind  and  two  in  front. 

Flicker  ( Colaptes  auratus),  Golden-winged  Woodpecker,  Yellow- 
hammer,  High-holder:  Male,  above,  golden-brown,  barred  with  black; 
white  patch  on  rump;  breast,  with  black  crescent;  below,  brownish 
dotted  with  black;  black  patch  on  cheeks,  red  band  on  back  of  head; 
lining  of  wings  and  tail,  yellow.  Female  lacks  the  black  cheek  patches. 
Lives  in  northern  and  eastern  United  States  to  Rocky  Mountains,  where 
it  arrives  from  the  South  in  April  and  stays  till  October.  Nests  gener- 
ally in  a hollow  tree.  Eggs,  pure  white,  usually  six  to  eight. 

Red-shafted  Flicker  ( Colaptes  cajer  coll  arts ):  Much  the  same  as 
above,  except  wings  and  tail  lined  with  red.  Red  instead  of  black  cheek 
patches,  and  no  red  on  back  of  head.  Common  on  Pacific  Coast. 


THE  YELLOW-THROAT 


IV 


THE  YELLOW-THROAT 

JUST  below  the  brow  of  Marquam  Hill,  half  a mile 
above  the  creek,  a little  spring  bubbles  out  of  an 
alder  copse.  Instead  of  trickling  down  the  hillside  like 
an  ordinary  streamlet,  the  wrater  scatters  and  sinks  into 
the  spongy  soil;  it  forms  a wet  place  an  acre  or  so  in 
extent,  over  which  has  sprung  up  a rich  growth  of  swamp 
grass.  This  is  the  Yellow-throat’s  ( Geothlypis  trichas 
occidentalis)  home.  I call  it  the  witches’  garden. 

There’s  a fascination  about  lying  in  the  shade  of  the 
alders  on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Overhead  on  the  top 
branches  of  the  maple,  is  the  favorite  perch  of  a meadow 
lark,  who  never  fails  to  rear  a brood  of  singers  each  sea- 
son. He  scatters  his  notes  downward  as  the  wind  of  au- 
tumn whirls  the  red  and  gold-tinted  leaves.  A flicker 
rattles  his  salute  from  the  hollow  top  of  a fir  stump.  A 
grosbeak  trills  a roundelay  that  fairly  sparkles  in  the  sun- 
shine. But  none  of  these  charm  me  like  the  fanciful  call 
of  the  yellow-throat.  You  may  hear  him  almost  any  time 
of  the  day  calling,  “Witch-et-y!  Witch-et-y!  Witch- 
et-y!  ” Yes,  you  may  hear  him,  but  seldom  see  him. 

I never  know  just  when  yellow-throat  will  return  in 
the  spring  or  when  he  is  going  to  depart  in  the  fall.  You 
may  hear  him  one  day  and  find  your  garden  tenantless  the 
following.  Then,  after  a long  silence,  you  wake  up  some 

35 


American  Birds 


36 

morning  and  find  he’s  there  again,  as  if  he  had  grown  out 
of  the  ground  during  the  night,  like  a toadstool.  After 
his  return,  he  soon  begins  to  scratch  out  a hollow  in  a 
tussock  of  swamp  grass. 

What  a little  deceiver  this  golden  sprite  is ! Look- 
ing for  his  nest  is  something  like  searching  for  the  bags  of 
gold  at  the  rainbow’s  tip.  If  you  stand  under  the  alders, 
looking  down  over  the  garden,  he  will  call,  “ Here-it-is ! 
Here-it-is ! Llere ! ” and  a minute  later  he  will  shriek  the 
same  lie  from  another  tussock  ten  yards  away. 

It  seems  to  be  the  appointed  duty  of  this  little  witch 
to  sing  his  lies  all  day  long,  while  his  wife  broods  the 
eggs.  He  wears  a jet-black  mask  across  his  face.  Per- 
haps when  Nature  gave  out  the  bird  clothes,  she  gave  this 
to  him  just  so  he  could  sing  his  falsehoods  without  a blush. 
The  lady  hops  about  without  the  sign  of  a veil,  while  the 
gentleman  always  wears  a mask;  it’s  the  Turkish  custom 
reversed. 

While  I was  honest  and  open  in  my  treatment  of  yel- 
low-throat, he  simply  met  every  advance  with  deceit.  I 
tried  to  visit  his  house  again  and  again  when  Mrs.  Yellow- 
throat  was  at  home,  but  every  time  he  led  me  by  a dif- 
ferent path  to  the  furthest  limits  of  the  garden.  I tried 
to  take  him  unawares,  but  he  seemed  to  do  nothing  else 
except  come  out  to  meet  visitors  and  pilot  them  in  the 
wrong  direction.  Whenever  I got  too  near  the  home  the 
wife  herself  slipped  off  the  nest  and  appeared  right  before 
me  calling,  “ Here-I-am ! Fol-low-me!  Fol-low!” 

At  last  I tried  cunning.  I took  a long  rope,  and  two 
of  us  crept  up  to  the  edge  of  the  garden  late  one  after- 
noon. We  quietly  spread  out,  each  taking  an  end  of  the 


The  Yellow-throat 


37 


cord.  At  a signal  we  skirted  the  opposite  sides  of  the  gar- 
den on  a dead  run,  brushing  the  grass  tops  with  the  rope. 
Just  as  it  switched  across  the  lower  end  a yellow  streak 
flashed  in  the  air  like  a rocket,  and  as  quickly  disappeared. 
She  never  dreamed  of  a snake  sweeping  the  grass  tops  at 
such  a lightning  speed  as  that  rope  went.  It  scared  her 
witless.  I walked  over  and  saw  her  nest  and  four  eggs 
set  down  in  the  middle  of  a thick  tussock. 

At  last  I had  the  little  deceivers  in  my  power.  They 
found  me  not  such  a cruel  tyrant  after  all.  They  had 
played  me  long,  but  now  the  game  was  mine,  and  the 
minute  they  lost,  they  gave  up  deceitful  methods.  Day 
after  day  the  wife  kept  her  vigil  of  love  upon  the  spotted 
eggs. 

We  laid  siege  with  the  camera,  but  not  in  a way  the 
least  obtrusive.  A service-berry  bush  grew  a few  feet 
away,  which  was  a favorite  perch  of  both  parents.  We 
soon  had  a rampart  of  limbs  built,  from  behind  which  the 
camera  was  levelled  at  the  bush.  After  covering  every- 
thing with  green,  and  attaching  a long  hose  and  bulb  to 
the  shutter,  we  were  ready.  The  mother  was  on  the  nest 
most  of  the  time,  but  the  father  stayed  about  near  at  hand 
and  kept  flitting  back  and  forth,  like  a watchman  on  his 
round.  Catching  his  picture  was  just  like  waiting  for  a 
bite  on  a lazy  day  at  the  river.  But  it  was  a good  deal 
more  exciting  when  the  fidgety  father  lit  in  the  service- 
bush. 

It  takes  patience  to  catch  bird  photographs.  Patience 
is  the  salt  of  the  old  bird-catching  legend.  You  may  have 
to  wait  hours  at  a time.  Often  a whole  day  slips  by  with- 
out getting  a single  good  picture,  but  if  you  have  had  your 


American  Birds 


38 

eyes  open,  you  have  not  failed  to  pick  up  some  interesting 
bits  of  information. 

Hunting  and  fishing  have  their  moments  of  intense 
excitement.  Occasionally  I like  to  go  back  to  the  more 
primitive  way  by  taking  to  the  trail  for  two  or  three  weeks 
to  hunt  and  fish  for  a living.  It  sharpens  the  senses  to 
live  as  the  Indian  lived.  I have  waded  mountain  streams 
and  whipped  the  riffles  for  trout.  I have  hunted  the  woods 
for  a dinner  of  grouse  and  quail.  There’s  not  a moment 
of  more  intense  excitement  that  comes  to  the  fisher  or 
hunter  than  comes  to  the  photographer  as  he  lies  hidden 
in  the  bushes,  camera  focused  and  bulb  in  hand,  waiting 
for  some  sly  creature  to  come  into  position.  If  it  takes 
a fine  shot  to  clip  the  wing  of  a flying  quail,  or  to  catch 
a buck  on  the  jump,  it  takes  a skilled  hand  to  anticipate 
bird  movements  that  are  too  rapid  for  the  eye,  and  click 
the  shutter  at  the  exact  instant.  A smile  of  deep  satis- 
faction sweeps  over  the  face  of  the  photographer  as  he 
stands  over  the  dim,  red-lighted  bench  and  sees  the  magic 
chemicals  transform  the  white-colored  glass,  and  etch  out 
a feathered  family  as  true  as  life  itself.  He  has  a feel- 
ing of  higher  pleasure  than  the  hunter  gets  in  looking  at 
his  game. 

Yellow-throat,  according  to  my  ideas,  was  more  of  an 
ideal  husband  and  father  than  many  male  birds.  He  was 
thoughtful  about  the  home,  he  worked  side  by  side  with 
his  wife,  and  never  failed  or  faltered  for  an  instant.  In 
fact,  he  often  marched  squarely  up  in  the  face  of  the 
camera,  when  his  mate  had  some  doubt  about  facing  the 
stare  of  the  big  round  eye.  By  this  time  he  had  forgotten 
his  witchety  call.  He  crossed  the  border  of  the  garden 


The  Yellow-throat 


39 


with  a harsher  note  of  authority,  “ T’see-here ! ” He 
dropped  to  a quieter,  ‘‘Quit!  Quit!”  when  he  ap- 
proached the  nest,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  waking  the 
babies. 

One  day  when  I spent  all  afternoon  about  the  nest, 
my  note-book  read  as  follows:  “Two  of  the  youngsters 
were  out  of  the  nest.  Set  up  a perch  for  them,  focused 
the  camera  at  one  o’clock,  and  hid  in  the  bushes.  In  five 
minutes  the  mother  came  with  a big  spider,  which  she  held 
carefully,  so  as  not  to  puncture  the  body  and  lose  the 
substance.  The  father  was  right  at  her  heels.  Both  fed 
and  went  away  on  a hunt  together  inside  of  two  minutes. 
They  returned  in  five  minutes  with  green  cutworms. 
While  the  mother  was  feeding  one  of  the  bantlings,  he 
fluttered  with  such  delight  that  he  fell  from  the  perch  in 
trying  to  swallow  his  morsel.  Both  parents  stayed  about 
watching  the  young  for  ten  minutes.  After  they  departed, 
the  mother  returned  in  three  minutes,  but  had  no  food. 
She  hopped  about  the  limbs  over  my  head,  watching  her 
children  with  an  anxious  eye,  till  she  heard  the  call  of  her 
mate,  when  she  left.  Inside  of  eight  minutes  they  were 
both  back  again  with  caterpillars  and  a moth.  The  mother 
fed,  but  the  father  hopped  about  the  bush  a moment  or  so 
and  swallowed  the  mouthful  he  had,  wiping  his  bill  across 
the  limb  with  a satisfied  air.  In  four  minutes  the  father 
was  there  again  with  a fat  grub,  which  he  gave  to  one  of 
the  children.  It  was  such  a huge  mouthful  that  it  took  a 
little  push  to  start  it  down.  He  hopped  up  on  the  camera, 
stretched  his  wings,  and  preened  himself  till  he  heard  his 
wife.” 

The  next  day  as  I sat  in  the  shade  watching  the  two 


4° 


American  Birds 


bantlings,  I had  to  roll  over  in  laughter  at  their  actions. 
Each  youngster  was  afraid  his  brother  would  get  the  next 
morsel,  and  his  fears  were  quite  often  realized.  Two  or 
three  times  they  became  so  excited  that  they  went  at  each 
other  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  a case  of  “ may  the  best 
man  win.”  I don’t  believe  in  brothers  quarrelling,  but 
once  or  twice,  while  I was  watching,  I saw  just  cause  for 
disagreement.  Both  mother  and  father  were  putting  their 
whole  energy  to  satisfying  the  two  little  stomachs  that 
seemed  to  go  empty  as  fast  as  they  were  filled.  The  two 
bairns  were  sitting  side  by  side,  when  the  mother  dropped 
to  the  perch,  and  gave  the  nearer  one  a big  caterpillar. 
The  father  came  two  minutes  later.  If  he  tried  to  tell 
who  had  the  last  bite  by  looking  at  those  wide-stretched 
mouths,  he  was  fooled.  In  a twinkling  the  chick  had 
taken  the  morsel  he  brought.  “ That  belongs  to  me,” 
yelled  the  brother  in  righteous  indignation,  but  it  was  too 
late,  papa  was  gone;  so  he  squatted  down  beside  his 
squirming  brother  with  a stoical  expression  that  showed 
it  was  better  to  be  a little  too  empty  than  a bit  too  full. 

Both  parents  seemed  nervous  when  their  children  were 
out  in  the  unprotected  open.  They  always  tried  to  coax 
the  little  ones  down  into  the  bushes  before  giving  them 
food.  I happened  to  discover  a very  urgent  reason  just 
why  these  yellow-throats  had  to  keep  under  cover.  My 
camera  was  well  concealed  and  aimed  at  a branch  where 
the  two  bantlings  were  perched,  while  I was  hidden  a few 
feet  away,  waiting  to  click  the  shutter  on  one  of  the 
parents  when  they  came  to  feed.  By  the  merest  chance  I 
happened  to  look  around,  and  saw  a black  object  whizzing 
earthward  like  a falling  star.  Instinctively  I jumped  up. 


The  Yellow-throat 


4i 


It  swerved  at  the  very  point  of  striking,  and  glanced  up- 
ward with  a swishing  sound,  and  left  me  gazing  at  a 
Cooper  hawk  that  sailed  off  down  the  hillside.  Later  I 
discovered  what  the  yellow-throats  had  known  all  the 
time  that  this  hunter  had  a nest  in  a fir  half  a mile  down 
the  canon,  and  that  this  very  garden  was  part  of  his  hunt- 
ing preserve. 

The  yellow-throats  grew  in  strength,  and  later  set  out 
with  their  parents  for  the  southland.  I may  never  see  the 
children  again,  and  I would  hardly  know  them  if  I did, 
but  I am  sure  the  parents  will  build  a new  summer  cottage 
in  the  garden  as  soon  as  winter  goes  away. 

THE  GROUND  WARBLER  FAMILY 

This  is  a part  of  the  Wood  Warbler  family,  but  these  birds  differ 
in  that  they  stay  habitually  in  bushes  or  among  the  grass.  The  nest 
is  generally  placed  on  the  ground. 

Maryland  Yellow-throat  ( Geothlypis  trichas ):  Male,  top  of  head, 
olive-gray  gradually  changing  to  bright  olive  on  rump;  under  parts, 
under  wing  and  tail  feathers,  rich  yellow,  fading  to  white  on  the  belly; 
forehead  and  sides  of  head  masked  with  black,  separated  by  ash-white 
line  from  crown.  Female,  smaller  and  colors  less  distinct;  no  black 
mask  on  head.  Summer  resident  of  eastern  United  States,  arriving 
from  the  South  during  the  first  week  in  May.  Nest  placed  on  the  ground 
or  in  a bushy  tangle. 

Western  Yellow-throat  ( Geothlypis  trichas  occidentalis ):  Like  the 
above,  but  slightly  larger  owing  to  longer  tail.  Nesting  habits  same  as 
above.  Inhabits  western  United  States,  arriving  from  the  South  about 
the  second  week  in  April. 

Mourning  Warbler  ( Geothlypis  Philadelphia)-.  Male  and  female, 
head,  throat,  and  breast  dark  slate  or  gray,  making  the  bird  appear  as 
if  wearing  crape;  back,  olive-green;  clear  yellow  below.  In  the  West, 
this  bird  is  named  Macgillivray  Warbler. 


A FAMILY  OF  GROSBEAKS 


V 


A FAMILY  OF  GROSBEAKS 

ONE  day  I crossed  the  road  below  the  yellow-throat’s 
garden,  broke  through  the  thick  fringe  of  maples 
and  syringa  brush,  and  crawled  along  on  my  hands  and 
knees  under  the  canopy  of  tall  ferns.  The  ground  was  soft 
and  loamy.  The  dogwood  saplings,  the  hazel  and  arrow- 
wood  bushes  grew  so  thick  that  each  vied  with  the  other 
in  stretching  up  to  reach  the  life-giving  light  of  the  sun’s 
rays.  Underneath,  the  blackberry  reached  out  its  long, 
slender  fingers  and  clutched  the  tallest  ferns  to  hang  its 
berries  where  they  might  catch  a glint  of  the  sun,  for  the 
beams  sifted  through  only  in  places.  I was  in  the  thicket 
of  the  Grosbeak  ( Zamelodia  melanocephala) . 

For  several  years  we  have  watched  a pair  of  grosbeaks 
that  spend  their  summers  on  the  side  hill  in  this  clump. 
The  same  pair,  no  doubt,  has  returned  to  the  thicket  for 
at  least  three  or  four  years.  It  seems  I can  almost  recog- 
nize the  notes  of  their  song.  If  our  ears  were  only  tuned 
to  the  music  of  the  birds,  could  we  not  recognize  them  as 
individuals,  as  we  recognize  our  old  friends? 

In  the  grosbeak  family,  the  cardinal  or  red-bird,  is 
perhaps  more  familiar  to  us,  since  he  is  often  seen  behind 
the  bars  of  a cage.  But  his  colors  fade  in  confinement,  and 
he  is  no  longer  the  brilliant  bird  of  the  wild  that  seems 
to  have  strayed  up  from  the  tropics.  But  even  if  the 

45 


46 


American  Birds 


beauty  of  this  bird  should  not  survive,  we  have  two  other 
grosbeaks,  the  rose-breasted  of  the  eastern  states  and  the 
black-headed  of  the  West,  both  alike  in  character  and  in 
habits. 

The  black-headed  grosbeak  is  one  of  the  birds  of  my 
childhood.  As  long  ago  as  I can  remember,  I watched 
for  him  in  the  mulberry  trees  and  about  the  elderberry 
bushes  when  the  fruit  was  ripe.  I could  tell  him  from  the 
other  birds  by  his  high-keyed  call-note  long  before  I knew 
his  name.  One  day  when  I stopped  to  look  for  a bird  that 
was  carolling  in  one  of  the  maples  along  the  creek,  I saw 
the  grosbeak  mother  singing  her  lullaby,  as  she  sat  on 
her  eggs.  It  looked  to  me  so  like  a human  mother’s  love. 
Few,  if  any  other  birds,  sing  in  the  home;  perhaps  they 
often  long  to  but  are  afraid.  As  John  Burroughs  says,  it 
is  a very  rare  occurrence  for  a bird  to  sing  on  its  nest, 
but  several  times  I have  heard  the  grosbeak  do  it.  How 
it  came  to  be  a custom  of  the  grosbeak  I do  not  know,  for 
birds  are,  in  general,  very  shy  about  appearing  near  the 
nest  or  attracting  attention  to  it. 

Last  year  I found  three  spotted  eggs  in  a nest  loosely 
built  among  the  leaves  of  the  dogwood  limbs.  When  I 
had  seen  the  father  carrying  a stick  in  his  mouth,  he 
dropped  it  and  looked  as  uneasy  as  a boy  who  had  just 
been  caught  with  his  pockets  full  of  stolen  apples.  This 
year  the  nest  was  twenty  feet  down  the  hill  from  the  old 
home.  They  came  nearer  the  ground  and  placed  the  thin 
framework  of  their  nest  between  the  two  upright  forks 
of  an  arrow-wood  bush.  We  had  never  bothered  them 
very  much  with  the  camera,  but  when  they  put  their  home 
right  down  within  four  and  a half  feet  of  the  ground,  it 


A Family  of  Grosbeaks  47 

looked  to  me  as  if  they  wanted  their  pictures  taken.  It 
was  too  good  a chance  for  us  to  miss.  The  ferns  grew 
almost  as  high  as  the  nest,  and  it  was  a fine  place  to  hide 
the  camera  so  as  to  focus  it  on  the  home. 

When  I waded  through  the  ferns  and  pushed  aside  the 
bushes,  the  nest  was  brimful.  Above  the  rim,  I could 
see  the  tiny  plumes  of  white  down  wavering  in  a breath 
of  air  that  I couldn’t  feel.  I stole  up  and  looked  in.  The 
three  bantlings  were  sound  asleep.  Neither  parent  hap- 
pened to  be  near,  so  I crawled  back  and  hid  well  down 
in  the  bushes  twelve  feet  away.  The  father  came  in  as 
silently  as  a shadow  and  rested  on  the  nest  edge.  He  was 
dressed  like  a prince,  with  a jet-black  hat,  black  wings 
crossed  with  bars  of  white,  and  the  rich,  red-brown  of  his 
vest  shading  into  lemon-yellow  toward  his  tail.  He 
crammed  something  in  each  wide-opened  mouth,  stretched 
at  the  end  of  a wiggling,  quivering  neck.  The  mother 
followed  without  a word  and  sat  looking  about.  She 
treated  each  bobbing  head  in  the  same  way.  Then,  with 
head  cocked  on  the  side,  she  examined  each  baby,  turning 
him  gently  with  her  bill,  and  looked  carefully  to  the  needs 
of  all  three  before  departing. 

The  male  stayed  near  the  nest.  When  I arose  and  stood 
beside  the  arrow-wood  he  was  scared.  “Quit!  Quit!” 
he  cried,  in  a high,  frightened  tone,  and  when  I didn’t  he 
let  out  a screech  of  alarm  that  brought  his  wife  in  a hurry7. 
Any  one  would  have  thought  I was  thirsting  for  the  life- 
blood of  those  nestlings.  She  was  followed  by  a pair  of 
robins,  a yellow  warbler  and  a flycatcher,  all  anxious 
to  take  a hand  in  the  owl-ousting  if,  indeed,  an  owl  was 
near.  I have  often  noticed  that  all  the  feathered  neigh- 


American  Birds 


48 

bors  ot  a locality  will  flock  at  such  a cry  of  alarm.  The 
robins  are  always  the  loudest  and  noisiest  in  their  threats, 
and  are  the  first  to  respond  to  a bird  emergency  call. 

The  weather  was  warm  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  young 
grosbeaks  grew  almost  fast  enough  to  rival  a toadstool. 
Sunshine  makes  a big  difference.  These  little  fellows  got 
plenty  to  eat,  and  were  where  the  sun  filtered  through  the 
leaves  and  kept  them  warm.  The  young  thrushes  across 
the  gully  were  in  a dark  spot.  They  got  as  much  food, 
but  they  rarely  got  a glint  of  the  sun.  They  didn’t  grow 
as  much  in  a week  as  the  grosbeak  babies  did  in  three 
days. 

I loved  to  sit  and  watch  the  brilliant  father.  He 
perched  at  the  very  top  of  the  fir  and  stretched  his  wings 
till  you  could  see  their  lemon  lining.  He  preened  his  black 
tail  to  show  the  hidden  spots  of  white.  Of  course,  he 
knew  his  clothes  were  made  for  show.  It  was  the  song  of 
motion  just  to  see  him  drop  from  the  fir  to  the  bushes 
below.  What  roundelays  he  whistled:  “ Whit-te-o!  Whit- 
te-o ! Reet!  ” Early  in  the  morning  he  showed  the  quality 
of  his  singing.  Later  in  the  day  it  often  lost  finish.  The 
tones  sounded  hard  to  get  out  or  as  if  he  were  practising; 
just  running  over  the  notes  of  an  air  that  hung  dim  in  his 
memory.  But  it  was  pleasing  to  hear  him  practise;  the 
atmosphere  was  too  lazy  for  perfect  execution.  He  knew 
he  could  pipe  a tune  to  catch  the  ear,  but  he  had  to  sit  on 
the  tree-top,  as  if  he  were  afraid  some  one  would  catch  the 
secret  of  his  art  if  he  sang  lower  down.  Perhaps  he  was 
vain,  but  I have  watched  him  when  he  seemed  to  whistle 
as  unconsciously  as  I breathed. 

The  morning  of  July  6th  the  three  young  birds  left 


49 


A Family  of  Grosbeaks 

the  nest,  following  their  parents  out  into  the  limbs  of  the 
arrow-wood.  They  were  not  able  to  fly  more  than  a few 
feet,  but  they  knew  how  to  perch  and  call  for  food.  I 
never  heard  a more  enticing  dinner-song,  such  a sweet, 
musical  “ tour-a-lee.” 

The  triplets  were  slightly  different  in  size  and  strength. 
The  eldest  knew  the  note  of  alarm,  and  two  or  three 
times  when  he  got  real  hungry  I heard  him  utter  a shriek 
that  brought  papa  and  mamma  in  a hurry  to  get  there 
before  he  was  clear  dead.  Then  he  flapped  his  wings  and 
teased  for  a morsel.  The  minute  his  appetite  was  sat- 
isfied he  always  took  a nap.  There  wras  no  worry  on  his 
mind  as  to  where  the  next  bite  was  coming  from.  He 
just  contracted  into  a fluffy  ball,  and  he  didn’t  pause  a 
second  on  the  border-land;  it  was  so  simple;  his  lids  closed 
and  it  was  done.  He  slept  soundly,  too,  for  I patted  his 
feathers  and  he  didn’t  wake.  But  at  the  flutter  of  wings 
he  awoke  as  suddenly  as  he  dropped  asleep. 

The  parents  fed  their  bantlings  as  much  on  berries  as 
on  worms  and  insects.  Once  I saw  the  father  distribute  a 
whole  mouthful  of  green  measuring-worms.  The  next 
time  he  had  visited  a garden  down  the  hillside,  for  he 
brought  one  raspberry  in  his  bill  and  coughed  up  three 
more.  Both  parents  soon  got  over  their  mad  anxiety 
every  time  I looked  at  their  birdlings.  In  fact,  they  soon 
seemed  willing  enough  for  me  to  share  the  bits  from  my 
own  lunch,  for  the  youngsters  were  very  fond  of  pieces 
of  cherry  taken  from  a small  stick,  twirled  in  the  air  above 
them. 

We  spent  the  next  two  days  watching  and  photograph- 
ing, but  it  took  all  the  third  forenoon  to  find  the  three 


5° 


American  Birds 


bantlings.  The  mother  had  enticed  one  down  the  slope 
to  the  hazel  bush  near  the  creek.  I watched  her  for  two 
hours  before  I heard  the  soft  tour-a-lee  of  the  young- 
ster. He  perched  on  my  finger  and  I brought  him  back 
to  the  nest.  Another  we  found  down  in  the  thimbleberry 
bushes,  which,  with  the  third  up  in  the  maple  sapling  over 
the  nest,  seemed  to  be  in  the  keeping  of  the  father. 

Nature  has  given  the  grosbeak  a large  and  powerful 
bill  to  crack  seeds  and  hard  kernels,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
this  would  be  rather  an  inconvenience  when  it  came  to 
feeding  children.  If  it  was,  the  parents  did  not  show  it. 
The  mother  always  cocked  her  head  to  one  side  so  that 
her  baby  could  easily  grasp  the  morsel,  and  it  was  all  so 
quickly  done  that  only  the  camera’s  eye  could  catch  the 
way  she  did  it.  She  slipped  her  bill  clear  into  the  young- 
ster’s mouth,  and  he  took  the  bite  as  hurriedly  as  if  he 
were  afraid  the  mother  would  change  her  mind  and  give 
it  to  the  next  baby. 

After  watching  the  grosbeak  family  all  day,  we  put 
the  children  in  a little  isolated  clump  of  bushes,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  when  we  paid  our  visit  early  the  next  morn- 
ing they  were  still  there,  but  perched  well  up  in  the  top 
limbs.  We  had  at  last  reached  almost  a “ bird-in-the- 
hand  ” acquaintance  with  the  parents.  We  could  watch 
them  at  close  range  and  they  didn’t  seem  to  care  a snap. 
The  mother  wore  a plain-colored  dress  in  comparison  with 
her  husband’s  almost  gaudy  suit.  When  he  turned  his 
head  he  showed  a black  silk  hat  that  was  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish any  bird,  but  I,  for  my  part,  would  hardly  have 
called  his  wife  Mrs.  Black-headed  Grosbeak  had  I not 
known  they  were  married. 


A Family  of  Grosbeaks  51 

I have  watched  a good  many  bird  families,  but  I never 
saw  the  work  divided  as  it  seemed  to  be  in  the  grosbeak 
household.  The  first  day  I stayed  about  the  nest  I noticed 
that  the  father  was  feeding  the  children  almost  entirely, 
and  whenever  he  brought  a mouthful  he  hardly  knew 
which  one  to  feed  first.  The  mother  fed  about  once  an 
hour,  while  he  fed  every  ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  This 
seemed  rather  contrary  to  my  understanding  of  bird  ways. 
Generally  the  male  is  wilder  than  his  wife  and  she  has  to 
take  the  responsibility  of  the  home.  The  next  day  I 
watched  at  the  nest  conditions  were  the  same,  but  I was 
surprised  to  see  that  the  parental  duties  were  just  reversed. 
The  mother  was  going  and  coming  continually  with  food, 
while  the  father  sat  about  in  the  tree-tops,  sang  and 
preened  his  feathers  leisurely,  only  taking  the  trouble  to 
hunt  up  one  mouthful  for  his  bairns  to  every  sixth  or 
seventh  the  mother  brought.  To  my  surprise  the  third 
day  I found  the  father  was  the  busy  bird  again.  Out  of 
eighteen  plates  exposed  that  day  on  the  grosbeak  family 
I got  only  five  snaps  at  the  mother,  and  three  of  these 
were  poor  ones.  The  fourth  day  I watched,  the  mother 
seemed  to  have  charge  of  the  feeding  again,  but  she  spent 
most  of  her  time  trying  to  coax  the  bantlings  to  follow 
her  off  into  the  bushes.  It  was  hardly  the  father’s  day 
for  getting  the  meals,  but,  on  the  whole,  he  fed  almost  as 
much  as  the  mother,  otherwise  the  youngsters  would  not 
have  received  their  daily  allowance.  I have  watched  at 
some  nests  where  the  young  were  cared  for  almost  entirely 
by  the  mother,  and  I have  seen  others  where  those  duties 
were  taken  up  largely  by  the  father.  Many  times  I have 
seen  both  parents  work  side  by  side  in  rearing  a family,  but 


52 


American  Birds 


the  grosbeak  seemed  to  have  a way  of  dividing  duties 
equally  and  alternating  with  days  of  rest  and  labor. 

d he  grosbeak  family  stayed  about  the  thicket  for  over 
two  weeks.  I saw  the  babies  when  they  were  almost  full- 
grown  birds  and  watched  them  follow  their  parents  about. 
I hey  were  able  to  find  hugs  and  feed  themselves,  but  each 
child  knew  it  was  easier  to  be  fed  than  to  go  about  looking 
under  every  twig  and  leaf.  One  juvenile  flew  up  to  the 
limb  beside  his  father,  quivering  his  wings  and  begging 
for  a bite.  His  father  straightened  back  and  looked  at 
him  with  an  air  of  inquiry,  “ Why  don’t  you  hunt  for 
yourself?  ” The  little  fellow  turned  his  back  as  if  in 
shame,  but  he  kept  on  crying.  The  father  flew  into  the 
next  tree;  the  little  beggar  followed  and  squatted  right 
beside  him  as  if  he  half  expected  a trouncing.  I looked 
to  see  him  get  it.  The  father  turned  and  fed  him.  He 
couldn’t  resist.  In  some  ways  children  are  the  same,  and 
bird  papas  are,  perhaps,  a good  deal  like  human  papas. 

THE  GROSBEAK  FAMILY 

The  Grosbeak  is  a seed-eater  and  is  related  to  the  sparrow  family. 
It  is  about  eight  inches  in  length  and  has  the  build  of  a sparrow,  but  it  is 
an  abnormal  sparrow,  because  of  its  immensely  thickened  bill.  The 
Grosbeak  is  a good  singer,  with  a finely  colored  dress. 

Rose-breasted  Grosbeak  ( Zamelodia  ludoviclana ):  Male,  head  and 
upper  parts,  black,  except  for  white  rump  and  white  markings  on  wings 
and  tail;  breast  and  under  wings,  rosy  red;  bill,  white.  Female,  brownish 
color,  no  rosy  tint  on  breast;  yellow  under  wings;  heavy  brown  bill. 
Found  in  eastern  United  States  and  southern  Canada,  from  the  first  of 
May  till  the  middle  of  September.  Nest  in  bushes  and  low  trees,  thin 
and  saucer-shaped,  made  of  wiry  roots.  Eggs,  from  three  to  five,  dull 
green  with  dark  brown  spots  and  specks. 


53 


A Family  of  Grosbeaks 

Black-headed  Grosbeak  ( Zamelodia  melanocephala ):  Male,  upper 
parts  black  with  brown  collar  and  brown  on  rump;  two  white  wing- 
bars;  throat  and  under  parts,  rich  orange-brown,  changing  to  lemon- 
yellow  on  belly  and  under  wings.  Female,  plain  brown  color,  sides 
streaked;  collar  and  wing-bars,  dull  white;  yellowish  on  belly  and 
under  wings.  Inhabits  western  United  States.  Nest  and  eggs  similar 
to  Rose-breasted  Grosbeak. 


THE  RED-TAILED  HAWK 


VI 


THE  RED-TAILED  HAWK 

THAT  chicken-hawk’s  got  a nest  somewhere  down  in 
them  cottonwoods;  he’s  been  round  there  every 
year  nigh  as  long  as  I can  remember.  He’s  never  pestered 
any  of  my  chickens,  so  I don’t  pester  him,”  replied  the  old 
farmer,  who  had  taken  us  out  behind  the  barn  to  a little 
knoll  where  we  could  see  the  grove  of  cottonwood  trees 
and  the  old  hawk  circling  above  them. 

This  was  in  the  summer  of  1898  while  we  were  pass- 
ing up  the  south  bank  of  the  Columbia  River  on  a hunt- 
ing trip.  We  searched  the  woods  at  the  time  but  were 
unable  to  find  the  aerie.  A year  later  we  happened  to  be 
in  that  vicinity  early  in  the  springtime  before  the  trees 
had  leaved  out  and  made  a careful  search  for  the  hawk’s 
nest.  It  was  near  the  top  of  one  of  the  tallest  trees, 
and  one  look  sufficed  to  give  us  both  the  same  opinion : 
the  nest  was  beyond  human  reach. 

I he  Red-tailed  Hawk  ( Buteo  borealis ) is  perhaps 
the  best  known  of  the  larger  birds  of  prey  throughout 
the  ETnited  States.  It  may  be  found  in  almost  every  state 
where  the  woods  still  remain  thick  enough  for  it  to  find  a 
good  nesting  place.  The  Pacific  Coast  is  a better  place 
for  hawks  and  eagles  than  many  of  the  eastern  states. 
I he  tall  trees,  the  sheer  cliffs  along  the  waterways,  and 
the  steep  hillsides  overlooking  the  valleys  beneath,  fur- 

57 


American  Birds 


58 

nish  ideal  homes  for  these  birds  of  prey.  Their  chosen 
sites  are  out-of-the-way  positions  where  they  are  safe  from 
human  interference.  The  red-tail  is  perhaps  commonest 
about  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys  of  California,  where  it 
builds  in  the  scattered  oaks.  Almost  every  little  canon 
along  the  central  coast  region  is  occupied  by  a pair  of 
these  birds.  Their  nests  are  easily  found  in  the  early 
spring  by  scanning  the  trees  for  a mile  up  the  hillside  with 
a field-glass.  The  abundance  of  these  hawks  is  due  to  the 
large  supply  of  natural  food  they  find  about  these  regions. 
Squirrels,  moles,  and  other  rodents  are  very  plentiful,  and 
the  hawks  help  to  keep  in  check  these  pests  that  are  such 
enemies  to  the  farmer.  If  it  were  not  for  the  birds  of 
prey,  the  balance  of  nature  would  surely  swing  very  much 
against  those  who  till  the  soil. 

A red-tail  likes  a high,  commanding  site  for  a nest, 
just  as  a mallard  searches  the  sedge  grass  about  a pond 
for  a home,  and  the  pair  of  hawks  in  the  cottonwood  had 
surely  found  it.  We  schemed  for  three  different  summers, 
after  we  found  this  aerie  of  the  red-tail,  before  we  finally 
succeeded  in  levelling  our  camera  at  the  eggs.  The  nest 
tree  measured  over  fourteen  feet  around  at  the  bottom. 
There  was  not  a limb  for  forty  feet.  The  nest  itself  was 
lodged  just  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet  up.  It  was  out 
of  the  question  to  clamber  up  such  a tree  with  climbers, 
ropes,  or  anything  else,  but  we  had  another  plan. 

We  had  spotted  a young  cottonwood  just  fifteen  feet 
away.  This  might  serve  as  a ladder,  so  we  chopped  at 
the  base  till  it  began  to  totter.  With  ropes  we  pulled  it 
over.  The  crown  lodged  in  the  branches  of  the  first  large 
limb  of  the  nesting  tree,  full  forty  feet  up.  This  formed 


The  Red-tailed  Hawk 


59 


a shaky  bridge,  up  which  we  clambered  a third  of  the 
way  to  the  nest.  Hope  led  us  on.  We  lassoed  upper 
branches,  dug  our  climbing-irons  into  the  bark  and  worked 
slowly  up. 

We  found  a stack  of  sticks  the  size  of  a small  hay- 
cock. They  were  not  pitched  together  helter-skelter.  A 
big  nest  like  a hawk’s  or  heron’s  always  gives  me  the  im- 
pression that  it  is  easily  thrown  together.  I examined  this 
one  and  found  it  as  carefully  woven  as  a wicker  basket. 
It  was  strong  at  every  point.  Sticks  over  a yard  in  length 
and  some  as  big  as  your  wrist,  were  all  worked  into  a 
compact  mass.  In  the  hollowed  top,  on  some  bark  and 
leaves,  lay  the  two  eggs. 

I never  saw  a more  commanding  stronghold.  It  over- 
looked the  country  for  miles  in  every  direction.  From 
where  the  hawk  mother  brooded  her  eggs  I looked  out 
far  up  the  Columbia,  and  I could  see  the  cavern-cut  slopes 
of  Mount  Hood.  Extending  to  the  westward  was  the  long 
line  of  ponds  and  lakes,  the  red-tail’s  favorite  hunting- 
ground,  while  to  the  north  lay  the  broad  expanse  of  water, 
and  in  the  distance  loomed  up  the  domelike  peak  of  St. 
Helens,  covered  with  perpetual  snow. 

How  could  we  ever  secure  a good  series  of  pictures 
at  such  a distance  from  the  ground?  It  looked  impossible 
at  first,  but  a careful  examination  showed  a rare  arrange- 
ment of  nest  and  branches.  If  we  could  but  hoist  our 
equipment  there  was  no  question  as  to  photographs.  Eight 
feet  below  the  aerie  the  trunk  of  the  tree  branched  and 
spread  in  such  a way  that  we  could  climb  to  a point  just 
above  the  nest  on  the  opposite  limb.  We  strapped  the 
camera  in  a crotch  that  seemed  built  for  the  purpose,  with 


6o 


American  Birds 


the  sun  coming  from  the  right  direction.  The  trouble 
came  in  focusing  the  instrument  One  hundred  and  twenty 
feet  is  not  such  a dizzy  height  when  you  stand  on  the 
ground  and  look  up,  but  it  is  different  when  you  strap 
yourself  to  the  limb  of  a tree  and  dangle  out  backward 
over  the  brink.  No  matter  how  strong  the  rope,  there’s 
a feeling  of  death  creeping  up  and  down  every  nerve  in 
your  body  the  first  time  you  try  it. 

The  eggs  of  some  hawks  differ  widely  in  marking, 
but  the  two  we  found  in  the  cottonwood  year  after  year 
were  always  of  a bluish-white  tint  with  pale  lavender  shell 
markings.  In  her  period  of  housekeeping  the  mother 
seemed  to  understand  the  changes  of  season.  She  cradled 
her  eggs  about  the  last  week  of  March,  before  the  trees 
had  leaved  out,  so  that  during  the  time  of  incubation 
she  had  a clear  view  of  the  surrounding  country.  When 
the  hawklets  were  hatched  and  she  had  to  go  back  and 
forth  carrying  them  food,  and  when  the  young  began  to 
move  about  in  the  nest  and  peek  over  the  edge,  they  were 
well  protected  from  a view  below  as  well  as  from  the  sun 
and  rain  above  by  the  thick  surrounding  foliage. 

The  red-tail  is  often  called  “ chicken-hawk,”  but  he 
does  not  deserve  the  name.  Many  of  the  hawks  carry 
reputations  that  they  do  not  deserve.  Often  people  who 
live  in  the  country  are  enemies  of  the  hawks  and  owls 
and  shoot  them  at  every  opportunity,  because  they  think 
the  hawk  is  the  persistent  foe  of  poultry,  whereas  this 
is  a very  small  part  of  his  diet.  In  regions  and  in  seasons 
when  animal  and  insect  food  is  scarce  this  hawk  may  catch 
chickens  and  game  birds,  but  it  lives  mostly  on  mice  and 
shrews  as  well  as  frogs,  snakes,  lizards,  and  insects  of  vari- 


The  Red-tailed  Hawk 


61 

ous  kinds.  In  a prairie  and  hilly  country  almost  its  entire 
food  is  squirrels,  gophers,  meadow-mice,  and  rabbits. 

It  has  been  shown  by  careful  examinations  of  hun- 
dreds of  stomachs  of  these  hawks,  carried  on  under  the 
direction  of  the  Department  of  Agriculture  at  Washing- 
ton, that  poultry  and  game  birds  do  not  make  up  more 
than  ten  per  cent  of  the  food  of  this  hawk.  All  the  other 
helpful  animals  preyed  upon,  including  snakes,  will  not 
increase  the  proportion  to  fifteen  per  cent,  so  there  is  a 
balance  of  eighty-five  per  cent  in  favor  of  the  red-tail. 
This  is  a fact  that  every  gunner  should  remember,  since 
the  hawks  destroy  so  many  injurious  rodents  they  should 
never  be  shot  unless  in  the  act  of  stealing  chickens. 

There  is  a charm  in  the  life  of  a wild  bird  of  prey. 
Like  the  Indian  that  once  hunted  his  daily  food  through 
forest  and  over  plain,  these  creatures  have  every  sense  de- 
veloped to  a high  point  for  their  own  protection  and  exist- 
ence. They  maintain  themselves  by  preying  upon  birds, 
fish,  and  mammals  almost  as  crafty  as  themselves. 

Off  to  the  west  of  the  hawk’s  nest,  and  spreading  for 
two  or  three  miles  to  the  north  and  south,  is  a network 
of  low-lying  ponds  and  lakes.  Here  the  red-tails  fished 
and  hunted.  Skirting  one  of  these  lakes,  early  one  morn- 
ing, we  came  to  the  top  of  a low  rise  between  this  and 
the  next  pond.  A hundred  and  fifty  yards  below,  and 
at  the  edge  of  the  timber,  we  saw  one  of  the  red-tails 
sitting  on  a dead  stump.  We  crouched  in  the  bushes  and 
studied  him  for  several  minutes  with  the  field-glass.  He 
had  not  seen  us  or,  at  least,  he  paid  no  attention  to  our 
presence.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his  wings  and  set  out  straight 
across  the  lake,  but  at  the  further  side  he  seemed  to 


62 


American  Birds 


change  his  mind,  for  he  swerved  and  sailed  back  a short 
way  to  the  left  and  suddenly  dropped  to  the  water  like 
an  osprey.  With  heavy  flapping  of  wings  he  struggled 
to  regain  the  air  with  the  weight  of  a large  carp  that 
was  wriggling  in  his  talons.  As  soon  as  the  hawk  reached 
the  bank  he  dropped  the  fish,  evidently  to  let  it  die  or 
to  get  a better  grip  on  the  load.  A few  intervening  bushes 
cut  off  our  view  of  the  fisher  and  his  catch,  but  we  lay 
quiet  till  the  old  hawk  took  wing  again  with  his  fish.  He 
could  hardly  scrape  over  the  tops  of  the  low  willows  as 
he  labored  slowly  toward  his  aerie  in  the  cottonwood. 

That  afternoon  wre  were  again  at  the  nest  tree  with 
our  cameras.  The  parents,  as  usual,  discovered  our  ap- 
proach while  we  were  some  distance  from  their  home, 
and  during  the  ascent  they  circled  about  overhead  with 
an  occasional  loud  scream.  When  we  looked  into  the  nest 
the  fish  feast  was  over,  for  only  the  tail-end  of  the  carp 
remained.  The  fish  was  originally  over  a foot  in  length, 
and  I should  have  judged  it  too  heavy  for  the  hawk  to 
carry  such  a distance  had  we  not  seen  him  do  it.  But 
these  birds  of  prey  are  powerful  on  the  wing;  they  will 
sometimes  attack  and  kill  animals  as  large  as  them- 
selves. 

Occasionally  a hawk  will  make  a mistake.  I have  the 
record  of  one  of  these  hawks  that  was  seen  sitting  on  a 
perch  watching  the  ground  below.  Suddenlv  he  poised 
and  dove  straight  for  the  prey.  He  seemed  to  strike 
squarely,  and  began  to  rise  with  a small  animal  in  his 
talons.  The  bird  rose  for  thirty  or  forty  feet,  and  then, 
with  a scream,  he  began  to  flutter  higher  and  higher,  cir- 
cling around,  and  all  the  time  feathers  were  dropping 


The  Red-tailed  Hawk 


63 


from  the  hawk’s  body.  He  reached  a height  of  several 
hundred  feet  when  he  began  to  descend  rapidly  and  soon 
dropped  to  the  ground.  The  hawk  had  pounced  upon  a 
weasel  and  had  clutched  it  through  the  hips,  but  had  not 
killed  the  little  animal.  Both  the  bird  and  his  prey  were 
dead  when  found.  The  weasel,  in  its  death-struggle,  had 
literally  disemboweled  the  big  bird. 

Our  young  chieftains  in  the  tall  cottonwood,  for  so 
we  called  them,  were  now  almost  full  grown.  They  were 
as  large  as  their  parents,  but  their  heads  were  still  cov- 
ered with  downy  feathers.  Instead  of  crouching  timidly 
in  the  nest  they  stood  up  and  walked  about  or  perched  in 
the  crotch  over  the  aerie.  Their  home,  which  was  once 
nest-shaped,  was  worn  down  about  the  edges  until  it  was 
a mere  platform  of  sticks.  While  at  first  they  assumed 
a fighting  attitude  when  we  reached  the  nest,  in  all  our 
visits  they  never  once  tried  to  tear  our  hands  with  their 
sharp  beaks.  How  they  watched  us  with  those  large  eyes 
of  gray,  such  sharp,  serious  eyes ! No  movement  of  ours 
escaped  their  gaze.  After  several  visits  to  the  aerie  we 
learned  to  regard  the  hawklets  with  a sort  of  love.  A 
glimpse  of  those  wild  creatures  in  their  home  well  repaid 
us  for  the  long  trip,  the  ascent  of  the  tree,  difficult  and 
dangerous  as  it  was.  We  longed  to  take  them  with  us  so 
as  to  study  their  habits,  for  in  a few  days  they  would  be 
forever  beyond  our  reach.  But  what  satisfaction  could 
we  have  had  in  watching  these  birds  behind  prison  bars? 
I should  much  rather  have  had  their  dried  bones.  Any- 
thing but  a hawk  or  an  eagle  in  a cage ! 

Conditions  had  changed  somewhat  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  hawk’s  nest  by  the  first  of  June  when  we  made  our 


64 


American  Birds 


last  visit.  The  river  had  risen  and  covered  the  lowland. 
The  water  had  come  up  to  the  base  of  the  tree,  and  we 
reached  it  only  by  wading  through  the  woods  for  half  a 
mile  with  the  cameras  strapped  to  our  backs.  The  warn- 
ing screams  of  the  parents  gave  assurance  that  the  home 
was  not  yet  deserted.  Peering  up  through  the  foliage  with 
our  field-glass  we  saw  two  young  braves  straining  their 
necks  and  watching  us  over  the  edge.  When  we  reached 
the  large  fork  below  the  nest,  one  of  the  parents  swooped 
downward  and  swerved  above  the  nest  with  a loud  scream. 
If  it  was  a command  it  was  instantly  obeyed,  for  the  young 
hawks  spread  their  wings  and  skimmed  out  over  the  trees 
and  on  up  the  bank  of  the  Columbia. 

We  made  a close  study  of  the  red-tail’s  home  in  the 
tall  cottonwood.  He  was  always  a successful  hunter.  In 
all  our  visits  we  never  saw  the  time  when  his  larder  was 
empty.  Nor  did  we  find  that  he  had  to  resort  to  the 
chicken  yard  for  food.  There  was  plenty  of  wild  game. 
On  the  first  visits  we  found  the  remains  of  quail  and  pheas- 
ants in  the  aerie.  One  morning  we  saw  the  mangled  body 
of  a screech  owl;  almost  a case  of  hawk  eat  hawk.  The 
old  red-tail  had  evidently  found  the  victim  returning  home 
too  late  in  the  morning,  and  there  were  no  restrictions 
as  to  race  and  color  in  the  hawk  household.  Later  in  the 
season,  when  the  banks  of  the  Columbia  overflowed  and 
covered  most  of  the  surrounding  country,  the  old  hawk 
did  not  abandon  his  own  preserve.  He  turned  his  atten- 
tion entirely  to  fishing.  Where  the  carp  and  catfish  fed 
about  the  edges  of  the  ponds  he  had  no  trouble  in  catching 
plenty  to  eat.  Twice  we  found  carp,  over  a foot  in  length, 
in  the  aerie.  After  that  we  saw  no  sign  of  food  other  than 


The  Red-tailed  Hawk  65 

fish,  and  on  our  last  visit  we  picked  up  the  head  bones 
of  seven  catfish. 

The  wild  life  of  the  red-tail  has  a fascination  for  me. 
He  is  as  interesting  as  a person.  He  has  a character  as 
clearly  marked  as  that  in  any  feathered  creature  I ever 
saw.  The  bleak  winter  winds  that  sweep  the  valley  of  the 
Columbia  and  drive  the  other  birds  to  the  southland, 
never  bother  him.  This  is  his  permanent  home.  He  is 
not  a vagabond.  He  is  local  in  his  attachments  and  habits. 
This  is  his  hunting  ground.  He  won  it  by  years  of  de- 
fence. He  beats  over  the  field  and  along  the  edge  of  the 
woods  as  regularly  as  the  fisherman  casts  his  net.  He  has 
his  favorite  perch.  He  watches  the  pond  as  closely  for 
carp  as  the  farmer  watches  his  orchard.  His  routine  of  life 
is  as  marked  as  any  inhabitant  along  the  river.  Nor  can 
I believe  he  is  lacking  in  the  sentiment  of  home.  He  adds 
sticks  to  his  house  and  enlarges  it  year  by  year.  Who  can 
say  that  the  old  aerie  is  not  fraught  with  many  hawk  mem- 
ories of  the  past? 

THE  HAWK  FAMILY 

The  Hawks  are  medium  or  large-sized  birds  of  powerful  build. 
They  have  strong,  hooked  bills  and  well-developed  feet  and  talons. 
Their  flight  is  swift  and  dashing,  and  they  catch  their  prey  by  watching 
and  swooping  with  great  speed.  They  live  largely  on  rabbits,  squirrels, 
gophers,  and  insects;  some  species  capture  birds  and  chickens. 

Red-tailed  Hawk  ( Buteo  borealis ),  Red  Hawk,  Hen  Hawk:  Male 
and  female,  above,  dark  brown,  marked  with  white  and  gray;  breast, 
whitish  and  buff,  streaked  across  belly  with  brown;  tail,  rusty-red  with 
black  band  near  end.  Common  resident  throughout  eastern  North 
America.  Nests  in  March,  generally  in  a tall  tree  in  the  woods.  Eggs, 
two  to  four,  dirty  white,  blotched  with  purplish-brown. 

Western  Red-tailed  Hawk  ( Buteo  borealis  calurus):  Same  as  above 
species,  but  darker  in  color.  Lives  from  the  Mississippi  to  the  Pacific. 


JACK  CROW 


VII 


JACK  CROW 


FTER  the  heavy  shut-in  winter  period,  the  first 


spring  day  sets  my  being  all  ajump  to  be  out  and 
away  across  the  hills  and  the  fields,  to  be  refreshed  by 
the  gladness  of  the  new  sunshine  and  brought  out  of  my 
winter  sleep  with  the  other  creatures  of  Nature. 

One  morning  early,  when  spring  was  not  yet  old,  the 
call  came  to  me  and  I was  up  and  afield  with  the  sun. 
I was  eager  to  be  out  among  the  wild  folk,  and  see  their 
joy  in  the  good  weather  and  their  calmness  and  rest  in 
the  sunlit  woods. 

Were  you  ever  in  a hurry  to  get  to  the  woods?  I was 
that  morning,  but  I didn’t  want  to  seem  too  anxious  to 
myself,  so  I sauntered  down  the  path  and  struck  off 
through  the  rows  of  corn  toward  the  dark  grove  hemming 
them  in.  I was  not  at  home,  and  the  charm  of  a strange 
land  was  with  me. 

The  green  corn-field  lay  in  the  hollow  with  the  big 
woods  all  around.  Just  at  the  corner  of  the  field,  between 
the  tall  pines  and  the  rustling  corn  blades,  I picked  up  a 
young  Crow  ( Corvus  americanus ) with  his  wing  hurt. 
Surmising  that  there  were  others  somewhere  near,  I began 
a hunt  and  found  two  more  little  black  fellows  in  a nest 
in  an  old  pine.  It  was  a real  crow  home,  with  the  rough 
sticks  piled  hastily  in  the  crotch  of  the  old  storm-broken 


7° 


American  Birds 


pine.  But  looks  were  deceptive,  for  built  into  that  rough 
foundation  was  a closely  woven  warm  nest.  Here,  be- 
tween the  forest  and  the  fallow  land,  the  provident  parents 
had  had  an  eye  for  a snug  home,  with  an  easy  living  close 
by,  but  the  gun  of  an  angry  farmer  had  made  orphans  of 
the  young  birds. 

The  crow  is  a peculiar  piece  of  birdhood.  His  jetty 
color  surely  was  not  given  him  for  protection,  so  perhaps 
his  wits  were.  Crow  wit  isn’t  very  deep,  but  it  is  certainly 
always  ready  for  use.  He  is  suspicious  and  always  sees 
a trap  in  the  simplest  thing,  yet  his  curiosity  can’t  let  it 
alone.  He  is  always  up  and  stirring  for  mischief.  Let 
a simple  owl  appear,  and  this  black  villain  will  heap  a 
load  of  never-suspected  crimes  upon  the  foolish  night-bird, 
and  call  all  of  his  neighbors  to  the  trial,  in  which  he  him- 
self renders  judgment.  Then,  after  thus  aiding  public 
justice,  he  will  turn  around  and  steal  anything  that  strikes 
his  fancy,  whether  he  needs  it  or  not.  He  needs  it — just 
because — that’s  all!  How  can  he  help  being  a thief?  He 
can’t  help  crow  nature.  Besides,  he  is  such  a cheerful 
bandit,  with  a gentle,  self-confident  way  of  taking  things 
from  under  your  very  nose.  There  is  ever  a hopeful,  ex- 
pectant expression  on  his  face,  and,  even  when  he  is  caught, 
he  puts  on  a don’t-care  look  and  immediately  hunts  up 
more  trouble. 

The  crow  walks  the  earth  as  if  he  belonged  there.  In 
fact,  everything  that  he  touches  belongs  to  him.  Other 
birds  drop  down  and  snatch  food  from  the  ground,  but 
Master  Crow  walks  about  and  takes  his  choice  as  if  it 
were  all  put  there  for  his  selection.  It  isn’t  impudence; 
it’s  a spirit  of  community  rights  with  man. 


71 


Jack  Crow 

We  made  a home  out  of  a dry-goods  box  for  the  three 
little  waifs,  and  they  seemed  happy  in  their  adoption.  It 
was  interesting  to  watch  them  play.  When  they  were  little 
fellows  and  couldn’t  fly  much  and  had  to  help  them- 
selves along  with  their  wings,  they  would  gather  about  the 
old  splitting-block  in  the  back  yard  and  chase  each  other 
around  and  around.  Sometimes  they  hopped  over  the 
block,  chippering  and  cawing  all  the  time  as  if  they  really 
understood  and  enjoyed  it.  It  looked  like  real  baby  play. 

They  had  another  game  which  seemed  to  bring  out 
all  the  humor  in  their  bird  natures,  though  you  never 
would  have  guessed  it  by  their  faces.  They  would  get 
a piece  of  paper,  or  something  light,  and  all  climb  up 
on  the  block,  and  one  of  them  would  drop  it  off.  The 
other  two  would  make  a dive  for  it  as  it  fluttered  down, 
and  one  of  them  would  get  it.  It  was  his  turn  then,  so 
they  stalked  slowly  back  and  again  took  their  places  on 
the  block.  And  so  the  game  went.  They  were  only 
little  chicks  and  often  it  took  three  or  four  tries  for  them 
to  get  over  the  big  block.  Finally,  they  would  make  such 
a racket  that  old  Jack,  the  dog,  would  interfere  and  pitch 
into  them  as  if  he  were  going  to  eat  them  alive,  and  then 
they  would  scatter  and  do  something  else.  As  they  grew 
older,  baby  ways  were  forgotten.  Crow  craft  took  the 
place  of  amusement,  and  they  were  stealing  and  hiding 
things  instead  of  playing. 

The  three  little  crows  lived  with  us  for  several  weeks. 
One  night  there  came  on  a cold  snap  late  in  the  season, 
and  in  the  morning  we  found  two  of  the  birds  dead  in 
the  box.  The  cripple  was  left. 

After  the  two  crows  were  gone  the  one  that  was  left 


72 


American  Birds 


seemed  to  have  a closer  companionship  with  us.  He  was 
alone  and  a cripple;  he  needed  our  care  and  we  gave  it. 
He  was  a joy  and  a sorrow  at  the  same  time — -a  joy  to 
watch  his  quick,  bright  ways,  but  a sorrow  to  have  any 
dealings  with  him. 

When  Jack  Crow  was  little  he  would  sit  up  and  beg 
us  to  feed  him,  his  wings  fluttering  and  his  bill  stuck 
straight  up  so  you  could  see  nothing  but  a hole  in  his 
head.  And  all  the  while  he  was  caw-awing  at  us.  We 
fed  him  everything.  Fish-worms,  berries,  and  soaked 
corn  were  the  main  part  of  his  diet.  He  was  particularly 
fond  of  hominy. 

The  weather  continued  cold  and  we  were  afraid  the 
young  crow  would  get  chilled  and  die,  so  one  night  we 
put  him  to  bed  with  old  Jack,  our  dog,  and  after  that  we 
could  never  get  them  apart.  Jack  Crow  made  a regular 
den  out  of  the  kennel,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  old  Jack 
was  consenting  to  lawlessness  in  the  community  when  he 
allowed  his  black  companion  to  bring  in  his  booty  and 
store  it  away. 

It  was  a 11  “ jug  -handle  ” love  between  the  two  Jacks. 
Jack  Crow  clung  to  the  old  dog  for  warmth  and  safety. 
His  was  a politic  friendship.  But  it  was  different  with 
old  Jack.  His  dog  fidelity  told  him  to  protect  the  little 
black  bird,  and  that  was  enough  for  him.  There  was  no 
such  faith  in  the  crow’s  creed.  He  took  toll  from  friend 
and  foe.  A dinner  call  for  “ Jack  ” brought  both.  Two 
dishes  were  set  out  and  each  knew  his  place,  but  Jack 
Crow  had  a short  memory.  He  left  his  own  dish  and 
stood  close  to  the  dog’s  plate,  watching  him  eat.  He 
seemed  to  measure  every  bite  old  Jack  took,  and  every 


73 


Jack  Crow 

now  and  then,  when  the  dog  stopped  gobbling  to  take 
a breath,  he  snatched  a chunk  and  scuttled  off  as  fast  as 
his  lame  wing  would  let  him.  Old  Jack’s  wrathful  growls 
were  his  only  consolation,  for  the  crow  perched  just  out 
of  reach  and  ate  his  stolen  bit  or  stowed  it  away  in  some 
conspicuous  corner.  The  dog’s  grievances  were  soon  for- 
gotten, and  the  crow  went  tagging  him  all  around  the 
yard,  hitching  along  as  fast  as  he  could  and  jabbering 
in  an  excited,  impatient  way. 

The  children,  the  dog,  and  the  crow  were  boon 
companions.  In  summer  they  went  blackberrying  to- 
gether. When  they  started  out  the  crow  always  rode  on 
some  one’s  shoulder,  but  when  they  came  back  he  was 
in  a much  bigger  hurry  to  get  home  than  the  rest  and 
flew  on  ahead.  When  they  arrived  they  found  him  skir- 
mishing for  something  to  eat  or  up  to  some  of  his  tricks. 

Jack  Crow’s  wings  were  never  clipped.  He  stayed 
with  us  of  his  own  free  will.  He  never  entirely  severed 
his  relations  with  his  own  kind,  for  he  used  to  go  out 
in  the  corn-field  with  the  flocks  of  tramp  crows  that  came 
to  forage.  We  expected  to  see  them  resent  his  company, 
since  it  generally  seems  to  be  the  case  that  wild  crows 
hate  a crow  that  is  tame  and  lives  with  man,  and  they 
treat  him  as  a traitor  to  the  race.  But  if  Jack  got  such 
treatment  we  never  knew  it. 

We  were  always  afraid  when  the  men  went  out  in  the 
field  to  shoot  crows  that  they  would  kill  our  pet.  So  we 
watched  the  proceeding  with  anxiety.  Once  or  twice,  when 
they  scared  up  the  flocks  of  birds,  old  Jack  was  along, 
and  Jack  Crow  saved  his  own  life  by  flying  out  of  the  flock 
and  lighting  on  the  dog’s  back.  All  through  the  summer 


74 


American  Birds 


and  fall,  when  he  was  young  and  growing  strong,  he  went 
out  in  the  corn-field  at  will,  but  dusk  always  brought  him 
home. 

Is  it  strange  that  there  should  be  bird  friendships? 
Isn’t  it  natural  and  necessary  that  the  wild  creatures  who 
brave  the  outdoor  hardships  should  need  the  encourage- 
ment and  backing  of  their  fellows?  Perhaps  in  the  days 
of  their  prosperity,  in  the  joyous,  sunny  nesting  time,  they 
forget  their  friends  and  past  favors;  but  it  is  only  for  a 
time,  and  the  ingratitude  isn’t  very  deep.  Besides,  they 
are  all  busy  with  household  cares  and  don’t  miss  each 
other.  But  in  the  fall  when  family  duties  are  over,  and 
parents  and  young  are  ready  to  begin  their  travels  to  the 
southland,  they  remember  that  company  makes  the  cold 
nights  a little  less  cheerless  and  shortens  the  miles  of  flight. 

There  are  very  few  of  our  common  birds  that  do  not 
flock  some  time  in  the  year.  Some,  like  the  water  birds, 
both  of  the  coast  and  the  inland,  live  together  all  the  time 
— the  gulls,  cormorants,  pelicans,  and  terns.  And  many 
of  the  land  birds  prefer  to  live  together  in  colonies,  such 
as  the  swallows,  blackbirds,  and  crows. 

The  crows  are  very  clannish  at  all  times  of  the  year. 
When  the  season  of  home-building  comes  they  sometimes 
select  a site  and  several  pair  will  nest  in  a locality.  Of 
course,  they  may  not  be  very  neighborly  at  this  time,  but 
they  like  to  have  the  assurance  of  their  kind  close  by. 

When  the  crows  begin  to  flock  the  farmer  feels  that 
winter  is  already  at  hand.  When  the  first  chill  winds  her- 
alded the  winter,  and  the  little  corn-field  in  the  hollow 
was  but  a patch  of  sear  stalks,  the  black  foragers  of  the 
summer  came  trooping  in  to  the  shelter  of  the  thick  pines. 


75 


Jack  Crow 

In  hundreds  they  came,  and  blackened  the  sky  as  they 
passed,  to  alight  in  the  skirts  of  the  woods  and  turn  their 
shade  to  ebon.  The  small  flocks  for  miles  around  seemed 
to  collect  to  form  one  great  winter  camp  in  the  old  pine 
forest. 

In  the  daytime  they  departed  for  the  few  meagre  feed- 
ing-grounds that  had  been  hunted  up  over  the  country. 
A big  flock  usually  took  the  lead,  sailing  straight  in  a 
dense  mass,  and  followed  by  a few  scattering  small  flocks, 
while  far  in  the  rear  came  the  stragglers  who  had  for- 
gotten to  start  on  time. 

Sometimes  great  numbers  of  them  lined  the  old  rail 
fence.  In  the  fall  an  old  rail  fence  and  a crow  belong  to 
each  other.  There  was  a change  in  their  attitude  now. 
They  were  not  bubbling  over  with  life  as  a few  months 
ago.  Even  curiosity  was  dulled.  They  had  put  on  the 
mood  of  another  season.  They  sat  with  heads  hunched 
down  between  their  pointed  shoulders,  and  they  sat  for 
long  spells.  There  was  something  ominous  in  their  quiet. 
Winter  meant  something  worse  for  the  crows  out  there 
in  the  cold  than  it  did  for  the  farmer  and  his  pet  crow 
in  his  snug  nest  with  the  old  dog  at  home. 

Jack  Crow  weathered  the  winter  in  happiness.  In  the 
yard  there  was  an  old  half  dead  apple  tree  where  he  used 
to  sit  and  jeer  at  the  dog,  when  he  had  been  nipping  some 
dinner.  But  the  dog  wasn’t  the  only  one  who  scolded 
the  little  torment.  This  old  apple  tree  was  the  crow’s 
favorite  den,  and  here  he  stored  his  treasures.  He  re- 
treated here  for  safety  and,  perched  on  a limb  out  of 
reach,  he  would  cock  his  head  on  one  side  and  listen  gravely 
to  the  powerless  threats  sent  up  to  him.  We  never  could 


American  Birds 


76 

teach  him  to  talk,  and  it  was  well  for  Jack  he  couldn’t 
lest  he  might  have  told  many  of  his  sins  we  never  dis- 
covered. 

Bright-colored  objects  and  things  that  glittered  seemed 
to  attract  him.  Although  he  couldn’t  string  his  treasures 
and  wear  them  around  his  neck  like  an  Indian,  he  never 
lost  the  enthusiasm  of  a collector.  A thimble  was  missed 
in  the  house  and  the  children  were  accused  of  misplac- 
ing it.  It  was  not  found  till  a year  later.  When  the  old 
apple  tree  was  cut  down,  up  in  a hole  in  the  fork  were 
found  the  thimble,  a teaspoon,  and  a lot  of  broken  glass 
and  other  trinkets.  The  finding  of  Jack’s  storehouse 
cleared  up  many  little  troubles  for  the  children. 

There  used  to  be  a current  notion,  which  probably 
was  well  founded,  that  crows  would  rob  hens’  nests.  Jack 
Crow’s  farmer-father  said  that  if  he  ever  got  to  robbing 
nests  he  would  have  to  be  killed.  But  he  never  did.  He 
kept  his  thieving  to  the  more  petty,  annoying  thefts  around 
the  house.  But  he  lived  up  to  crow  character  every  bit 
and  never  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet.  When  he 
could  sneak  into  the  summer  kitchen  he  would  hop  on  a 
chair,  and  then  upon  the  table,  and  snatch  things  when  he 
thought  no  one  was  looking.  Stealing  was  pure  delight 
to  him. 

A crow  likes  company  as  a chicken  does.  But  he 
can’t  be  placed  in  the  same  class  with  chickens.  What  a 
sputtering  in  the  barn-yard  when  the  crows  flew  over ! 
But  the  chickens  were  friendly  to  Jack,  for  in  winter  he  ran 
around  with  them,  picking  up  extras  beside  what  he  got 
from  the  table.  Jack  considered  everything  a gain. 

He  stayed  with  the  family  the  whole  of  one  year.  Early 


Jack  Crow  77 

the  next  spring  when  the  crows  first  began  to  come  he 
would  flap  off  down  the  corn  rows  with  them,  getting 
acquainted  perhaps.  At  night  he  would  come  back  to  the 
house  if  the  children  and  old  Jack  did  not  hunt  him  up 
before.  Gradually  he  got  to  staying  out  nights,  and 
finally  he  would  be  gone  for  two  or  three  days  at  a time. 
At  last  he  didn’t  come  back  at  all.  We  never  knew 
whether  he  was  taken  back  into  crow  fellowship,  or 
whether  he  departed  to  a new  land  to  begin  life  over  and 
live  as  a thoroughbred  crow  should. 

After  he  left,  the  children  often  took  old  Jack  and 
went  down  in  the  corn-field  to  look  for  Jack  Crow.  They 
scared  up  all  the  flocks  they  could  find,  but  never  again 
did  they  see  Jack  Crow  fly  out  from  the  swarm  of  black 
wings  that  fluttered  up  into  the  pine  trees  on  the  skirts 
of  the  field. 


THE  CROW  FAMILY 

This  is  a large  family,  including  jays  and  magpies.  The  Crow  is 
everywhere  known  because  of  the  black  coat.  This  family  has  no  musical 
ability,  as  the  voice  is  either  hoarse  or  harsh.  The  crow  walks  firmly 
and  easily  on  the  ground  while  the  jay  hops.  The  crow  is  about  a foot 
and  a half  long;  he  lives  on  small  mammals,  cutworms,  grain,  fruit, 
and  the  eggs  and  young  of  other  birds. 

American  Crow  (Corvus  Americanus ):  Male,  plumage,  glossy  black 
with  purplish  tinge;  bill  and  feet  black.  Female,  less  brilliant.  Lives 
throughout  the  United  States,  summer  and  winter.  Nest,  generally  in 
evergreen  trees,  a platform  of  rough  sticks  lined  with  bark,  weeds,  and 
leaves.  Eggs,  four  to  six,  greenish,  spotted  with  brown. 


THE  OWL,  BIRD  OF  NIGHT 


VIII 


THE  OWL,  BIRD  OF  NIGHT 

^"T^HERE  is  not  a tumble-down  barn  in  the  country  that 
does  not  shelter  good  material  for  a naturalist’s 
note-book.  Take  it  all  in  all  the  old  shacks  are  the  most 
productive.  If  there  is  a hole  and  a snug  corner  some 
wren  or  bluebird  has  likely  climbed  in  and  built  a home. 
If  it  be  near  town  some  English  sparrow  has  perhaps  been 
living  there  all  winter,  and,  at  the  first  sign  of  spring, 
has  begun  carrying  in  grass  and  sticks.  Or,  if  the  barn  is 
very  shaky  and  leaky,  it  may  make  a home  for  an  owl. 

The  Barn  Owl  ( Strix  pratincola ) is  not  hard  to  please 
when  he  needs  a nesting  place.  He  takes  the  steeple  of  a 
church,  an  old  hollow  sycamore  along  the  creek,  or  a cave 
in  the  mountains.  I know  of  one  pair  that  has  lived  for 
years  in  the  tower  of  a court-house.  The  town  clock  just 
below  the  nest  must  have  been  a nuisance  at  first  during 
the  day-sleep,  but  it  was  likely  taken  as  something  that 
could  not  be  helped,  as  we  take  the  clang  and  rumble  of 
the  street-cars  under  our  windows  at  night. 

Years  ago  our  nearest  neighbor  got  a pair  of  pigeons, 
sawed  two  holes  up  in  the  corner  of  his  barn  and  nailed 
up  a soap  box  for  them.  The  pigeons  disappeared  one 
day  and  the  next  spring  a pair  of  barn  owls  moved  in. 
That  was  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  but  the  old  dusty  box 
in  the  gable  is  still  rented  to  the  same  pair.  I have  no 
doubt  they  will  stay  as  long  as  the  barn  lasts. 

81 


82 


American  Birds 


Our  neighbor  says  his  barn  is  worn  out,  and  resembles 
Mr.  Burroughs’  apple  tree,  which  was  not  much  good  for 
apples  but  always  bore  a good  crop  of  birds.  The  owl 
home  is  a valuable  asset  of  the  barn.  The  owner  knows 
something  of  owls  as  well  as  of  fruit  trees;  no  other  barn 
about  the  neighborhood  shelters  such  a valuable  family 
of  birds,  and  he  guards  them  as  closely  as  he  guards  his 
cherries.  The  nest  has  never  been  robbed,  and  when  we 
spoke  of  photographing  his  owls  he  looked  doubtful  until 
we  promised  him  the  birds  should  not  be  harmed. 

The  barn  owl  is  a queer-looking  tenant.  No  one  is  very 
fond  of  an  owl.  More  than  that,  his  actions  are  against 
him.  It’s  natural  that  we  should  not  care  much  for  a fel- 
low who  is  up  and  sneaking  around  all  night  and  sleeping 
through  the  day.  There  is  always  some  suspicion  about  a 
night-prowler,  whether  he  be  bird,  man,  or  beast.  How- 
ever, I have  often  watched  the  barn  owl,  and  have  studied 
his  habits,  so  that  I am  sure  he  did  more  for  our  neigh- 
bor in  one  night  than  the  pigeons,  swallows,  and  wrens 
did  in  a month.  Not  in  singing,  mercy  no!  Who  ever 
heard  of  a song  coming  from  a hooked  bill?  It  was  in 
real  service  about  the  farm,  as  watchman  or  policeman, 
to  rid  the  place  of  injurious  animals. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  photograph  these  barn 
owls  in  the  very  peak  of  the  old  barn.  T he  minute  we 
came  near  the  nest  box  the  old  owl  pitched  headlong  out 
of  the  hole  and  landed  in  a willow  tree  opposite.  We  had 
to  climb  a ladder  and  swing  into  the  rafters  to  reach  the 
nest.  In  such  a place  we  could  hardly  handle  a camera. 
There  was  not  even  a loft  to  work  from,  so  we  set  up  a 
long  ladder  and  nailed  to  it  a couple  of  cross-pieces  strong 


The  Owl,  Bird  of  Night  83 

enough  to  hold  a board.  Crawling  up  in  a stooping  po- 
sition we  took  the  back  out  of  the  nest  box  and  fixed  it 
so  that  it  would  drop  down  to  show  the  inside,  and  then 
could  be  fastened  up  again. 

A month  later  we  climbed  up  into  the  gable  end  of 
the  barn  and  pulled  out  three  of  the  funniest,  fuzziest, 
monkey-faced  little  brats  that  I have  ever  set  eyes  upon. 
They  blinked,  snapped  their  bills,  and  hissed  like  a boxful 
of  snakes.  We  took  them  to  the  ground  and  doubled  up 
in  laughter  at  their  queer  antics.  They  bobbed  and 
screwed  around  in  more  funny  attitudes  in  a minute  than 
any  contortionist  I ever  saw. 

We  found  them  graded  in  size  and  height,  as  care- 
fully as  a carpenter  builds  the  steps  of  a staircase.  They 
were  lumpy-looking,  as  if  some  amateur  taxidermist  had 
taken  them  in  hand  and  rammed  the  cotton  in,  wad  at 
a time  with  a stick,  till  he  had  the  youngsters  bulging 
out  in  knobs  all  over. 

The  eldest  we  called  the  colonel,  but  looking  at  him 
from  a humanized  standpoint,  it  seemed  to  me  he  had 
been  put  together  wrongly,  for  his  chest  had  slipped  clear 
around  on  his  back.  At  times  he  was  a peaceable-looking 
citizen,  but  he  was  always  shy  and  cautious.  He  turned 
his  back  on  the  camera  in  disgust,  or  sat  in  a sour  state 
of  silence,  but  one  eye  was  always  open,  watching  every 
movement  we  made. 

While  the  nestlings  were  in  the  downy  stage  the 
mother  always  stayed  with  them  during  the  day.  She 
seemed  to  be  a widow,  with  triplets  on  hex  hands,  for  we 
never  saw  the  father.  If  he  came  to  see  the  children  or 
to  help  in  the  house  it  was  only  in  the  dark  of  the  night. 


American  Birds 


84 

When  the  nestlings  grew  older  the  mother  slept  in  the 
cypress  tree  during  the  day.  Twice  I tried  to  climb  the 
tree  to  get  a good  view  of  her,  but  each  time  she  flew 
out  as  soon  as  I got  a few  feet  up.  She  seemed  to  have 
no  trouble  in  seeing  by  day  as  well  as  by  night,  but 
the  eyes  of  the  owl  are  undoubtedly  much  keener  after 
dark. 

We  crept  out  one  night  and  hid  in  a brush-heap  by 
the  barn.  It  was  not  long  before  the  scratching  and  soft 
hissing  of  the  young  owls  told  us  their  breakfast-time 
had  come.  The  curtain  of  the  night  had  fallen.  The 
day  creatures  were  at  rest.  Suddenly  a shadow  flared 
across  the  dim-lit  sky;  there  was  a soundless  sweeping  of 
wings  as  the  shadow  winnowed  back  again.  The  young 
owls,  by  instinct,  knew  of  the  approach  of  food,  for 
there  was  a sudden  outburst  in  the  soap  box  like  the 
whistle  of  escaping  steam.  It  was  answered  by  a rasp- 
ing, witching  screech.  I thought  of  the  time  when  we 
used  to  creep  out  at  the  dead  of  night  and  scare  an  old 
negro  by  drawing  a chunk  of  resin  along  a cord  attached 
to  the  top  of  an  empty  tin  can.  Again  and  again  the 
shadow  came  and  went.  Then  I crept  into  the  barn, 
felt  my  way  up,  and  edged  along  the  rafters  to  the  hen- 
roosty  old  box.  Silently  I waited  and  listened  to  a nasal 
concert  that  might  have  come  from  a cageful  of  snakes. 
As  soon  as  food  was  brought  I lit  a match,  and  saw  one  of 
the  little  “ monkey-faces  ” tearing  the  head  from  the  body 
of  a young  gopher. 

The  barn  owl  kills  the  largest  squirrel  quickly  and 
easily,  for  the  animal  apparently  terror-stricken  does  not 
show  much  fight.  With  sharp  talons  stuck  firmly  into  the 


The  Owl,  Bird  of  Night  85 

back  of  the  squirrel,  and  with  wings  spread,  an  owl  can 
break  the  animal’s  neck  with  a few  hard  blows  of  his  beak. 
The  head  is  usually  eaten  first,  either  because  that  is  a 
favorite  part,  or  because  the  destruction  of  the  head  gives 
the  bird  better  assurance  of  the  animal’s  death. 

The  next  time  I climbed  the  cobwebbed  rafters  to 
photograph  the  young  owls  I cautiously  thrust  in  my  hand 
to  pull  out  the  nearest  nestling.  In  a twinkling  he  fell 
flat  on  his  back  and  clutched  me  with  both  claws.  Of  all 
the  grips  I ever  felt,  that  was  the  most  like  a needle-toothed 
steel  trap.  I felt  the  twinge  of  pain  as  the  sharp  talons 
sank  into  the  flesh.  I cringed  and  the  grip  tightened. 
The  slightest  movement  was  the  signal  for  a tenser  grasp. 
It  was  the  clutch  that  fastens  in  the  prey  and  never  re- 
laxes till  the  stillness  of  death  follows.  I hung  to  the 
rafters  and  gritted  my  teeth  till  I could  wedge  in  my  thumb 
and  pry  the  claws  loose. 

The  young  owls  were  hardly  old  enough  to  fly,  but 
they  could  raise  their  wings  and  run  like  a cat  for  the 
darkest  corner.  We  had  never  tried  the  camera  on  such 
a ferocious  lot  of  birds.  They  knew  the  art  of  self- 
defense  like  a professional  prize-fighter.  Approach  one, 
and  he  was  on  his  guard.  He  would  turn  on  his  back  in 
a second  and  throw  up  his  claws.  “ Come  on,  I’m  ready,” 
he  seemed  to  say,  and  we  kept  our  distance.  The  oldest 
one  had  a villainous  temper;  he  was  as  much  opposed  to 
having  his  picture  taken  as  a superstitious  Indian.  Gen- 
erally he  sat  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  chest  like  a broken- 
down  lawyer.  Once,  when  the  photographer  was  least 
expecting  it,  he  dropped  on  to  his  trousers’  leg  as  lightly 
as  a feather,  but  with  the  strength  and  tenacity  of  a mad 


86 


American  Birds 


bull-pup.  The  claws  sank  through  to  the  flesh,  and  before 
they  could  be  pried  loose  they  had  drawn  blood  in  three 
places. 

All  birds  of  prey  swallow  a great  deal  of  indigestible 
matter,  such  as  the  fur  and  bones  of  animals  and  the  feath- 
ers of  birds.  After  the  nutritious  portions  have  been  ab- 
sorbed, the  rest  of  the  mass  is  formed  into  pellets  in  the 
stomach,  and  is  vomited  up  before  a new  supply  of  food  is 
eaten.  By  the  examination  of  these  pellets,  found  about 
the  nest  or  under  the  roost,  a scientist  can  get  a good  idea 
of  the  character  of  the  food  that  has  been  eaten.  Besides, 
one  generally  finds  in  the  nest  the  remains  of  creatures 
upon  which  the  young  birds  have  been  feeding. 

The  birds  of  prey  are  well  able  to  fulfil  their  mission 
in  the  world  of  natural  things.  All  parts  of  the  organic 
world  are  linked  together  in  a thousand  ways,  and  one 
form  of  life  is  dependent  upon  other  forms,  while  the 
whole  has  been  summed  up  in  a general  law  called  the 
“ balance  of  nature.”  If,  for  example,  we  were  to  kill 
off  our  birds  of  prey,  we  would  have  no  check  against  the 
rodents  that  infest  our  fields.  Nature  made  these  birds 
with  strong  wings  and  acute  eyes;  she  gave  them  powerful 
claws  to  pierce  the  entrails  of  the  small  animals,  and 
strong,  hooked  bills  for  tearing  the  flesh.  They  digest 
food  so  rapidly  that  they  are  continually  on  the  hunt,  and 
eat  a large  amount  each  day. 

The  owls  as  a family  are  the  most  helpful  birds  of 
prey  to  the  farmer.  With  few  exceptions  they  are  night 
hunters.  Their  eyes  and  ears  are  remarkably  acute,  and 
are  keenest  in  the  early  hours  of  the  night  and  morning. 
Many  harmful  rodents  are  most  active  in  their  search  for 


The  Owl,  Bird  of  Night  87 

food  during  the  night,  and  the  owls  are  the  natural  check 
upon  them.  The  hawk  hunts  by  day  and  the  owl  by  night, 
and  the  work  of  one  supplements  that  of  the  other. 

A pair  of  barn  owls  occupied  one  of  the  towers  of  the 
Smithsonian  Institution  at  Washington.  When  the  young 
were  half-grown  the  floor  was  strewn  with  pellets.  An 
examination  of  two  hundred  of  these  showed  a total  of 
four  hundred  and  fifty-four  skulls.  Four  hundred  and 
twelve  of  these  were  mice,  twenty  rats,  twenty  shrews,  one 
mole,  and  one  vesper  sparrow. 

A family  of  young  barn  owls  will  number  from  three 
to  seven  birds.  It  is  hard  to  believe  what  an  amount  of 
vermin  a family  of  owls  will  consume.  An  old  owl  will 
capture  as  much  or  more  food  than  a dozen  cats  in  a night. 
The  owlets  are  always  hungry;  they  will  eat  their  own 
weight  in  food  every  night,  and  more,  if  they  can  get  it. 
A case  is  on  record  where  a half-grown  owl  was  given  all 
the  mice  it  could  eat.  It  swallowed  eight,  one  after  the 
other.  The  ninth  followed  all  but  the  tail,  which  for 
some  time  hung  out  of  the  bird’s  mouth.  The  rapid  diges- 
tion of  the  birds  of  prey  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  in  three 
hours  the  little  glutton  was  ready  for  a second  meal,  and 
swallowed  four  more  mice.  If  this  can  be  done  by  a single 
bird,  what  effect  must  a whole  nestful  of  owls  have  on  the 
vermin  of  a community? 

I wondered  at  the  changes  in  the  owl  faces  as  they  grew 
older.  When  I first  saw  them  in  white  down,  I thought 
the  face  was  that  of  a sheep,  and  then  a monkey,  and  then 
I didn’t  know  just  what  it  resembled.  The  third  time 
we  visited  the  nest  each  youngster  had  a face  that  surely 
looked  like  some  old  grandmother  dressed  in  a nightcap. 


88 


American  Birds 


Later  on,  when  we  saw  them  full-grown,  they  had  grown 
to ’be  more  owl-like  and  dignified. 

An  owl  spreads  terror  among  the  small  ground  folk 
as  a ghost  among  negroes.  It  is  the  owl’s  shadow-silent 
wings,  his  sharp,  sound-catching  ear,  and  his  night-piercing 
eyes  that  make  him  the  superior  of  the  mouse,  the  mole, 
the  gopher,  and  the  squirrel.  He  fans  over  the  field  with 
an  ominous  screech  that  sets  a mouse  scampering  to  his 
hole,  but  his  ear  has  caught  the  footstep;  those  wings  are 
swift,  those  steel  trap  claws  are  always  ready;  his  drop  is 
sure,  his  grip  is  death. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  a more  useful  bird 
than  the  barn  owl  in  any  farming  country.  Like  many 
other  birds,  it  deserves  the  fullest  protection,  but  man  is 
often  its  worst  enemy. 


THE  OWL  FAMILY 

The  Owls  are  distinguished  from  all  other  birds  by  having  very 
large  heads.  The  large,  round  eyes  looking  forward  instead  of  sidewise 
give  a full-face  view.  The  bill  is  hooked;  the  claws  long,  hooked,  and 
very  sharp.  They  live  on  animal  food,  catching  small  animals,  birds, 
reptiles,  and  insects  at  night-time.  The  strange  and  weird  cries  this 
bird  makes  at  night  connect  it  with  things  superstitious. 

American  Barn  Owl  (Strix  pratincole ):  Male  and  female,  face,  white 
edged  with  yellowish;  under  parts,  pure  white  to  yellowish-brown,  dotted 
with  blackish  spots;  upper  parts,  yellowish-brown,  more  or  less  mottled 
with  gray.  Lives  throughout  the  warmer  parts  of  North  America,  where 
it  nests  in  February  and  March.  Nests  in  hollow  trees,  caves,  towers, 
and  belfries.  Eggs,  from  three  to  eight,  dirty  white. 


REARING  A WREN  FAMILY 


IX 


REARING  A WREN  FAMILY 

WHY  shouldn’t  a little  wren  have  an  enormous  appe- 
tite? ” I mused,  as  I lay  hidden  in  the  tall  grass 
watching  the  father  as  he  fed  the  eldest  of  the  family  of 
five,  that  had  flown  for  the  first  time  from  the  nest  in  the 
hollow  stump  to  the  alder  branches  below.  “Of  course 
we  admit  that  the  tiny  bobtailed  youngster  must  have  the 
most  rapid  sort  of  double-action  digestive  apparatus  when 
we  remember  that  he  is  full-grown  within  two  weeks  from 
the  day  he  is  hatched.  The  chief  object  of  his  life  must 
be  to  eat  and  to  sleep.” 

Wrens  are  interesting  little  chaps  anyhow — droll, 
fidgety  individuals,  each  with  great  self-esteem.  My  in- 
terest in  a certain  brown  family  had  increased  with  every 
visit  for  a whole  month.  One  picks  up  many  acquaint- 
ances rambling  about  the  hills,  but,  like  people,  some  are 
more  interesting  than  others,  and  acquaintanceship  often 
warms  into  friendship  as  the  days  pass  by. 

While  out  birding  in  the  latter  part  of  June  I was 
trudging  along  up  one  of  the  shaded  paths  of  the  fir- 
covered  hillsides,  when  a little  bird  whizzed  headlong 
down  in  its  tippling  flight,  barely  dodging  my  head.  Both 
of  us  were  rather  flustered  at  this  sudden  and  unexpected 
meeting.  The  moment’s  pause  on  an  overhanging  branch 
was  sufficient  for  me  to  recognize  the  hurrying  stranger 

9i 


92 


American  Birds 


as  a Vigors  Wren  ( Thryomanes  bewickii  spilurus) . 
But  I hardly  had  time  to  see  just  what  the  small  white  par- 
cel was,  she  carried  in  her  mouth.  It  may  have  been  a 
white  miller,  soon  to  be  thrust  down  a gaping  throat,  but 
this  little  brown  bird  was  too  wise  to  show  me  her  home. 

The  next  day,  however,  I stole  a march,  and  was  well 
hidden  in  the  bushes  near  where  I thought  the  nest  must 
be,  when  the  wren  appeared.  I hardly  expected  to  escape 
that  sharp  round  eye,  and  was  prepared  for  the  scolding 
that  followed;  in  fact,  I took  it  cheerfully,  without  a word 
in  reply.  In  her  bill  she  held  a strip  of  snake-skin.  Rather 
an  uncanny  mouthful,  to  be  sure.  She  fidgeted  about  with 
her  tail  over  her  back,  and  then  whirled  away  to  a large 
upturned  root  covered  with  vines.  Here  she  hopped  about 
in  the  tangle  of  brier  and  fern,  apparently  forgetful  of 
my  presence;  but  those  sharp  brown  eyes,  behind  which 
are  generations  of  care  and  cunning  gained  in  contact  with 
nature,  are  never  heedless.  Her  action  would  have  de- 
ceived any  other  creature,  but  I knew  her  too  well;  at  the 
likeliest  moment,  and  in  an  eye’s  twinkling,  she  suddenly 
popped  up  into  the  dead  body  of  an  alder  tree  and  disap- 
peared into  a tiny  round  hole. 

Wrens  have  traditions,  and,  like  some  people,  are  per- 
haps slightly  superstitious.  I was  not  sure  that  a Vigors 
wren  thought  there  had  to  be  a bit  of  snake-skin  in  her 
home,  but  I do  not  remember  ever  examining  the  nest  of 
her  cousin,  the  Parkman  wren,  without  finding  it.  May- 
be it  is  for  protection,  as  it  is  said  that  a snake  will  not 
venture  where  a scrap  of  its  own  skin  is  found.  Years  and 
years  ago  the  first  wrens  must  have  fought  for  themselves 
among  tribes  of  reptiles,  and  now  the  birds  never  think 


93 


Rearing  a Wren  Family 

of  starting  housekeeping  without  searching  up  the  hill- 
sides, through  the  meadows,  or  back  in  the  deep  woods 
until  the  cast-off  scaly  coat  of  some  snake  is  found  and 
borne  home  in  triumph  as  a safeguard. 

Almost  every  feathered  creature  has  some  interesting 
trait  of  protection.  I have  always  found  that  the  red- 
breasted nuthatch,  after  he  has  dug  out  his  wooden  home 
in  some  dead  stump,  never  fails  to  collect  a good  supply 
of  soft  pitch  to  plaster  about  the  round  doorway  of  his 
log-house. 

Ever  since  I discovered  the  wren  building  its  home 
in  the  alder  stub  my  interest  had  grown,  and  I was  anx- 
ious to  win  its  friendship,  principally  because  most  birds 
had  finished  nesting  for  the  season.  Why  had  the  nest 
not  been  placed  nearer  the  ground  instead  of  at  a dis- 
tance of  twelve  feet,  and  why  was  such  a dark,  narrow 
home  chosen  that  I could  hardly  get  a glimpse  of  the  in- 
terior? 

Experience  had  taught  me  not  to  try  to  win  the  affec- 
tions of  a bird  too  rapidly,  especially  at  a season  when  it 
was  so  busy  with  household  affairs.  When  I thought  I 
could  safely  do  so,  I went  up  near  the  nest  rather  cautiously 
and  timidly,  and  sat  down  in  the  tall  ferns.  It  surprised 
me  somewhat  that  neither  parent  scolded  at  my  approach. 
After  watching  and  waiting  for  almost  half  an  hour  and 
seeing  neither  wren,  I became  impatient  and  knocked 
gently  on  the  tree  trunk  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  brown 
head  that  might  be  thrust  from  the  round  door  above. 
Again  I knocked,  and  then  a little  harder.  It  was  queer 
that  a wren  could  not  feel  such  an  earthquake  against  the 
pillar  of  her  home.  I shook  the  tree  vigorously.  Could 


94 


American  Birds 


it  be  possible  the  nest  was  deserted?  Visions  of  all  sorts 
of  bird  accidents  flashed  through  my  mind  as  I swung  up 
into  the  branches  and  rapped  at  the  round  door.  All  was 
dark  within;  not  even  the  white  eggs  could  be  seen.  This 
was  bad  luck  indeed,  I thought.  Then,  with  the  aid  of 
a little  mirror  that  is  always  handy  to  examine  dark 
cracks,  I reflected  a ray  of  light  through  the  door  to  the 
innermost  depths.  There  sat  the  mother,  her  brown  back 
almost  indistinguishable  from  the  dry  sides  of  the  house, 
but  those  round  dark  eyes  gleamed  out  from  the  gloom. 
Nor  did  she  have  any  idea  of  deserting  her  post  for  all  the 
knocking  without. 

When  I visited  the  little  wooden  home  the  first  week 
in  July  there  was  a decided  turn  in  the  tide  of  wren  affairs. 
The  news  was  heralded  from  the  tree-tops.  The  energy 
that  had  been  used  in  keeping  the  secret  of  the  little  home 
a week  previous  was  doubled  in  the  eagerness  to  spread 
it  among  feathered  neighbors  far  and  wide.  For  two  long 
weeks  the  mother  and  father  had  covered  and  caressed 
their  five  eggs  of  speckled  white  until  they  suddenly 
teemed  with  inward  life,  and  five  tiny  bodies  burst  forth 
from  the  prison  walls. 

The  father  wren — it  is  often  the  case — was  rather 
timid  while  we  were  around.  He  had  a particular  fear 
and  dislike  for  the  great  three-legged,  one-eyed  creature — 
my  camera  — that  was  hidden  dragonlike  so  near  his 
home.  Birds  have  many  enemies,  and  a nest  is  seldom  left 
without  its  guard.  We  soon  discovered  that  this  was  the 
father’s  duty.  His  harsh,  scolding  note,  sounded  from 
the  surrounding  boughs,  always  reminded  us  that  we  were 
trespassing. 


95 


Rearing  a Wren  Family 

It  was  the  mother’s  duty  to  forage.  Returning  from 
the  hunt  with  food  she  whisked  about  with  a “ what-are- 
you  - doing  - here  ” look  of  inquiry.  Although  flustered 
somewhat  at  first  by  our  presence,  she  soon  came  to  regard 
us  with  an  air  of  indifference.  A moment’s  pause  on  her 
threshold,  and  into  the  round  opening  she  would  pop; 
then,  as  if  amazed  at  the  increasing  appetites  she  had  to 
appease,  she  would  dart  out  and  away  for  a new  supply. 

About  the  hillside  and  down  along  the  little  stream 
the  mother  searched  continually  the  entire  day  for  grubs. 
Each  time  returning,  she  would  pause  on  the  top  of 
one  of  the  trees  nearby  and  pipe  her  merry  trill.  This 
note  of  home-coming  the  father  never  failed  to  hear,  and 
it  was  he  that  always  gave  the  response  of  “ all’s  well.” 
I was  amused  to  hear  how  readily  the  wrenlets  learned 
to  recognize  the  voice  of  their  mother.  Her  song  of  ar- 
rival came  to  be  answered  by  such  a chorus  of  tiny  cries 
from  the  round  door  that  she  could  not  resist  hurrying 
headlong  to  the  nest.  Several  times  from  my  “ rabbit’s 
hole  ” in  the  bushes  I saw  a song  sparrow  stop  on  sway- 
ing limb  and  sing  a song  somewhat  resembling  that  of  the 
wren,  but  the  children  in  the  wooden  home  knew  not  the 
song,  and,  true  to  their  parents’  teachings,  remained  quiet 
while  the  doughty  father  darted  out  and  drove  the  in- 
truder from  the  premises. 

On  July  23d  I wrote  in  my  note-book:  “ This  morning 
I was  surprised  to  see  two  little  brown  heads  as  I gazed 
through  my  field-glass  at  the  round  nest  hole.”  But  how 
could  I ever  get  pictures  of  the  wren  nestlings  if  they  were 
to  remain  continually  within  those  protected  wooden 
walls? 


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American  Birds 


For  some  reason  the  father  stormed  and  scolded  more 
than  usual  at  my  next  visit.  He  seemed  out  of  sorts  about 
everything.  Hie  rating  I got  was  not  very  much  more 
severe  than  the  little  wretch  gave  his  wife  when  she  re- 
turned each  time  with  morsels  of  food.  Something  was 
very  far  wrong.  It  could  not  be  that  his  mate  did  not 
search  hard  enough  for  food  or  bring  enough  back.  With 
all  his  faultfinding,  he  never  once  offered  to  relieve  his 
faithful  wife. 

Hidden  in  the  grass,  I tried  to  solve  the  secret  of  the 
father’s  pettish  actions.  Each  time  the  patient  mother  re- 
turned he  grew  more  restless  and  violent  in  his  language. 
Soon  I saw  his  wife  whirl  joyously  by  with  an  unusually 
large  white  grub — surely  a prize  for  any  bird.  But,  alas! 
For  all  her  prowess  her  spouse  darted  at  her  as  if  in 
madness,  while  she,  trembling  in  terror,  retreated  down  the 
limb  and  through  the  bushes.  For  a few  moments  it 
seemed  as  if  the  wren  household  was  to  be  wrecked.  I 
was  tempted  to  take  the  mother’s  part  against  such  cruel 
treatment,  as  she  quivered  through  the  fern  on  fluttering 
wing  toward  me,  but  at  that  moment,  as  if  thoroughly  sub- 
dued, she  yielded  up  the  bug  to  the  father.  This  was  the 
bone  of  contention.  A domestic  battle  had  been  fought, 
and  he  had  won.  The  scolding  ceased.  Both  seemed  sat- 
isfied. Mounting  to  the  tree-top,  the  little  mother  poured 
forth  such  a flood  of  sweet  song  as  rarely  strikes  human 
ear.  From  that  moment  she  seemed  a different  wren,  re- 
leased from  all  care  and  worry.  Her  entire  time  was  spent 
in  search  for  bugs.  Each  return  was  heralded  by  the  high- 
sounding  trill  from  the  tree-top,  and  her  husband  whirled 
out  of  the  tangled  vines  to  take  the  morsel  she  carried. 


97 


Rearing  a Wren  Family 

But  what  of  his  actions?  He  had  either  gone  crazy 
or  he  was  a most  selfish  little  tyrant,  for  he  flew  about  the 
alder  stump,  calling  now  in  a softer  tone  to  his  children 
within,  and  finally  swallowed  the  grub  himself.  Two  or 
three  times  he  did  this,  until  I was  so  disgusted  I could 
hardly  endure  him.  If  he  were  hungry,  why  could  he  not 
skirmish  for  his  own  bugs? 

While  I was  chiding  him  for  his  infamous  action,  the 
mother  appeared  with  a large  moth,  which  he  readily  took. 
Among  the  alder  limbs  he  flew,  and  finally  up  to  the  nest 
hole,  out  of  which  was  coming  such  a series  of  hungry 
screams  as  no  parent  with  the  least  bit  of  devotion  could 
resist.  Hardly  could  I believe  my  eyes,  for  the  little  knave 
just  went  to  the  door,  where  each  hungry  nestling  could 
get  a good  view  of  the  morsel,  then,  as  if  scolding  the  little 
ones  for  being  so  noisy  and  hungry,  he  hopped  back  down 
the  tree  into  the  bushes. 

This  was,  indeed,  cause  for  a family  revolt.  The 
brown  nestling  nearest  the  door  grew  so  bold  with  hunger 
that  he  forgot  his  fear  and  plunged  headlong  down,  catch- 
ing in  the  branches  below  where  the  father  perched.  And 
the  precocious  youngster  got  the  large  moth  as  a reward 
for  his  bravery. 

Not  till  then  did  it  dawn  upon  me  that  there  was  a 
reason  for  the  father’s  queer  actions.  The  wrenlets  were 
old  enough  to  leave  the  nest.  Outside  in  the  warm  sun- 
shine they  could  be  fed  more  easily  and  would  grow  more 
rapidly,  and  they  could  be  taught  the  ways  of  woodcraft. 
In  half  an  hour,  one  after  another,  the  little  wrens  had 
been  persuaded,  even  compelled,  to  leave  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  the  nest  and  launch  out  into  the  big  world. 


98 


American  Birds 


What  a task  the  father  had  brought  upon  himself! 
Surely  the  old  woman  in  a shoe  never  had  a more  trying 
time.  The  fretful  father  darted  away  to  punish  one  of 
the  wrenlets  for  not  remaining  quiet;  he  scurried  here  to 
scold  another  for  wandering  too  far,  or  whirled  away  to 
whip  a third  for  not  keeping  low  in  the  underbrush,  away 
from  the  hawk’s  watchful  eyes. 

My  attention  was  directed  in  particular  to  one  little 
feathered  subject  who,  each  time  the  brown  father  came 
back,  insisted  vociferously  that  his  turn  was  next.  Once 
in  particular,  when  the  camera  did  not  fail  to  record,  papa 
wren  was  approaching  with  a large  grub.  The  wrenlet 
was  all  in  ecstasy.  He  was  calling,  “ Papa,  papa,  the 
bug  is  mine!  The  bug  is  mine!  ” fluttering  his  wings  in 
delight  as  he  hopped  to  the  next  limb  near  the  hesitating 
parent.  But  the  youngster’s  emphatic  appeal  failed  to 
persuade  the  father,  for  the  next  instant  he  deposited  the 
morsel  in  the  mouth  of  the  less  boisterous  child.  What 
a change  in  my  enthusiastic  little  friend,  who  at  one  mo- 
ment fairly  tasted  the  dainty  bit  and  the  next  saw  it  dis- 
appear down  the  throat  of  a less  noisy  brother.  He  stood 
looking  in  amazement  as  his  feathers  ruffled  up  in  anger 
and  an  astonished  peep  of  disgust  escaped  his  throat. 

Another  day  in  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  wrenlets 
began  to  act  more  like  their  parents,  and  to  gain  rapidly 
in  worldly  knowledge.  The  third  morning  all  was  quiet, 
and  I thought  the  family  had  departed  for  other  hunting- 
grounds.  Soon,  however,  the  father  appeared,  and  then 
the  mother,  scolding  as  usual.  I crawled  down  under  the 
tall  ferns  to  wait.  The  parents  had  taught  their  children 
the  act  of  keeping  still  very  well,  for  not  a peep  was  heard. 


99 


Rearing  a Wren  Family 

But  those  ever-growing  appetites  soon  mastered  caution, 
and,  regardless  of  continual  warnings,  there  was  a soft 
little  “Wink!  Wink!  ” in  the  direction  of  the  vine-cov- 
ered stump.  ’Twas  hardly  an  exclamation  of  delight,  but 
just  a gentle  reminder  lest  the  busy  parents  forget.  Grad- 
ually these  little  notes  increased  in  number  and  volume  till 
the  full  chorus  of  five  impatient  voices  arose  from  among 
the  tangle  of  vines  and  ferns. 

My  continued  visits  had  made  fast  friends  of  the  little 
fellows.  Two  of  them  took  their  position  on  the  top 
of  the  stub  where  the  father  was  accustomed  to  light. 
Here  they  sat  in  sleepy  attitude,  each  awaiting  his  turn 
to  be  fed.  Not  in  the  least  accommodating  were  they  from 
the  photographer’s  point  of  view,  for  generally  when  the 
camera  was  focused  for  the  picture  they  would  nod  lower 
and  lower,  as  children  do  at  bedtime,  till  both  were  sound 
asleep  in  the  warm  sunshine.  It  was  remarkable,  how- 
ever, to  witness  the  effect  of  the  mother’s  trill  as  she  her- 
alded the  approach  of  something  edible.  In  a flash  both 
wrenlets  on  the  wooden  watch-tower  were  wide  awake  and 
on  the  tiptoe  of  expectancy. 

Often  do  I remember  trying  to  play  foster-parent  to 
young  birds,  and  yet,  with  all  my  care  and  patience,  I 
seldom  succeeded.  A week  before,  when  I had  held  a large 
spider  temptingly  near  the  nestlings,  they  had  crouched 
back  in  terror;  but  by  this  time  they  had  certainly  gained 
in  worldly  wisdom.  I also  had  not  been  watching  the 
wrens  for  the  past  two  weeks  without  learning.  I had 
seen  the  mother  hop  up  and  down  an  old  stump,  like  a 
dog  after  a squirrel,  till  she  would  haul  out  a big  grub. 
Digging  into  this  bird  storehouse  with  my  knife,  in  a trice 


I oo 


American  Birds 


I collected  half  a dozen  fine  fat  worms — a stock  of  provi- 
sions that  would  take  the  mother  two  hours  to  gather. 
Why  are  young  birds  so  particular,  anyhow?  What  dif- 
ference does  it  make  whether  their  dinner  comes  from  the 
mother’s  mouth  or  from  some  kindly  disposed  neighbor? 

“ I’ll  just  test  the  little  wrens  once  more,”  I said  to 
myself,  as  I impaled  two  of  the  choicest  grubs  on  a sharp- 
ened stick.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  announce  the 
approach  of  this  dinner  with  the  soft  little  “ Wink ! 
Wink!”  of  the  mother,  but  I patted  both  the  sleepy 
birdies  on  the  hack  and,  rather  hesitatingly,  held  up 
my  offering.  There  was  hardly  room  to  doubt  its  ac- 
ceptance. Mercy!  Such  a reaching  and  stretching!  I 
could  not  divide  up  fast  enough.  Nor  was  one  grub  apiece 
sufficient.  Quiet  was  not  restored  till  each  wrenlet  had 
stored  away  two  of  the  largest  and  fattest. 

For  the  first  time  the  parent  -wrens  seemed  to  realize 
that  I was  actually  of  some  use.  The  trying  task  of  sat- 
isfying five  growing  appetites  was  lessened  to  some  de- 
gree, and  the  busy  parents  took  household  affairs  some- 
what more  easily  the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  next  time  I saw  the  wren  family  all  the  young 
were  scampering  about  in  the  bushes,  following  their  pa- 
rents hither  and  thither,  earning  their  own  livelihood,  and 
rapidly  learning  for  themselves  the  arts  of  woodcraft. 

THE  WREN  FAMILY 

The  Wrens  are  all  dull  brown  or  gray  birds  and  fine  singers.  They 
have  long,  slender  bills  and  are  generally  found  in  low  bushes  and  shrub- 
bery where  they  hunt  for  worms  and  insects.  In  size  they  are  from 
four  to  six  inches  in  length.  They  are  fidgety  and  inquisitive  and  may 
often  be  recognized  by  a tail  that  is  tilted  over  the  back. 


IOI 


Rearing  a Wren  Family 

House  Wren  (Troglodytes  a'edon ):  Male  and  female,  dark  brown 
above,  barred  with  a darker  shade  especially  on  wings  and  tail;  under 
parts  grayish-brown.  Lives  through  eastern  United  States,  where  it  may 
be  found  from  the  middle  of  April  to  October.  Nest,  a loose  heap  of 
sticks  with  a soft  lining,  in  a bird-house  or  hollow  tree.  Eggs,  six  to  ten, 
cream  color,  covered  with  red-brown  spots. 

The  House  Wren  on  the  Pacific  Coast  is  identical,  but  is  called 
Parkman  Wren.  Vigors  Wren  is  also  similar  but  larger  in  size,  and 
may  be  recognized  by  a whitish  stripe  over  the  eye.  The  Winter  Wren 
is  common  in  the  East  and  West  and  is  smaller  in  size,  only  four  inches 
in  length.  Like  the  other  wrens,  it  may  be  known  by  its  plain  brown 
clothes,  fidgety  movements  and  bright  and  lively  song. 


THE  WEAVER  OF  THE  WEST 


X 


THE  WEAVER  OF  THE  WEST 

I LAY  on  my  back  under  the  hemlock  and  marvelled 
at  the  little  mansion  hanging  in  the  glint  of  the  warm 
June  sun.  Yes,  a real  bird  mansion.  Not  open-roofed,  for 
impudent  passers-by  to  spy  out  family  secrets;  not  set  in 
a crotch,  so  that  it  could  be  tipped  over  or  blown  out,  but 
carefully  tied,  cradlelike,  to  the  drooping  branches,  where 
it  could  be  rocked  by  the  playing  breezes. 

It’s  not  a small  matter  to  get  a site  suited  for  a Bush- 
tit’s  ( Psaltriparus  minimus)  mansion.  There  should  be 
one  or  two  firm,  upright  twigs  about  which  to  weave  the 
walls,  a cross  branch  or  two  for  rafters,  and,  if  the  house 
is  to  be  modern,  a little  support  for  a porch  or  promenade. 
Contrary  to  our  first  rule  for  success,  these  little  builders 
begin  at  the  top  and  build  down,  first  weaving  the  roof, 
leaving  a round  door,  and  then  the  hallway  down  to  the 
main  living-room.  Each  is  the  architect  of  his  own  home, 
and  each  is  a born  master  builder. 

Once  I found  a bush-tit’s  nest  twenty  inches  long.  The 
little  weavers  had  started  their  home  on  a limb,  and  appar- 
ently it  was  not  low  enough  to  suit  them,  for  they  wove 
a fibrous  strap  ten  inches  long,  and  then  swung  their 
gourd-shaped  nest  to  that,  so  it  hung  in  a tussock  of  willow 
leaves. 

I happened  to  find  the  nest  in  the  hemlock  when  they 


io6 


American  Birds 


were  putting  in  the  first  spider-web  cross-beams  and  sup- 
ports for  the  roof,  and  only  six  feet  from  the  ground, 
where  I could  see  the  whole  process.  In  two  days  they  had 
all  the  framework  up  and  started  with  the  furnishings. 
Each  midget  would  return  every  few  minutes  with  some- 
thing new.  Down  into  the  bag  he  would  dive,  and  it 
would  shake  and  bulge  for  a moment,  and  then  away  he 
would  dart  for  some  more  material.  It  took  days  to 
furnish  the  home.  What  downy  draperies ! What  moss- 
covered  walls,  lichen-tinted  in  greens  and  browns!  And 
most  important  of  all,  there  was  a thick  bed  of  feathers, 
the  resting-place  of  seven  eggs  of  delicate  whiteness. 

You  should  have  seen  the  way  they  put  me  in  the  same 
category  with  small  boys,  owls,  and  sparrow  hawks.  At 
first  they  didn’t  dare  go  near  the  nest  for  fear  I’d  see  it. 
But,  mercy ! a titmouse  might  make  twenty  resolutions  not 
to  trust  you,  and  the  very  next  minute  he’d  throw  him- 
self and  all  his  hopes  right  into  your  arms.  There  wasn’t 
a fibre  of  suspicion  in  his  little  body,  but  his  race  had  suf- 
fered so  long  that  a good  bit  of  caution  had  been  embedded 
in  his  tiny  brain.  He  tried  to  keep  the  family  secret,  but 
the  minute  he  trusted  me  he  told  all  he  knew. 

I stood  almost  within  reach  of  the  nest.  The  little 
lover  looked  me  over  from  all  sides.  Then,  as  a final 
test,  he  popped  right  into  the  round  door.  He  knew  I 
would  make  a grab  at  him,  nest  and  all.  He  was  out  in  a 
twinkle.  He  looked  amazed,  for  I didn’t  move.  That 
was  his  test  of  friendship,  and  from  that  time  on  he  gave 
me  his  confidence. 

What  implicit  trust  they  placed  in  me ! Why,  I don’t 
know.  Had  they  forgotten  the  thousand  wrongs  the  man- 


The  Weaver  of  the  West  107 

tribe  had  inflicted  upon  their  kin?  They  had  known  me 
scarcely  a week.  I really  believe  the  fluffy,  gray  bodies 
only  remembered  the  kindnesses  of  our  race,  not  the  evils. 
Then,  maybe,  they  had  not  forgotten  the  feathers  I hung 
about  on  the  limbs.  But  their  happiness  was  my  happi- 
ness. I rejoiced  when  the  naked  mites  broke  from  the 
fragile  shells.  I had  a private  door  all  my  own;  a slit 
cut  in  the  back  wall  where  I could  occasionally  peek  into 
the  innermost  depths,  and  then  pin  it  carefully  together 
again. 

Anybody  would  fall  in  love  with  a bush-tit,  even  if 
he  were  not  the  chickadee’s  cousin.  If  it  were  not  for  his 
tail,  the  fluffy  midget  would  be  no  larger  than  your  thumb. 
He  does  not  possess  the  aerial  grace  of  a swallow,  or  even 
the  nimbleness  of  a warbler.  He  bustles  along  in  such  a 
jerky  way  he  often  looks  as  if  he  would  topple  heels  over 
head  and  go  whirling  to  the  ground  like  a tailless  kite. 
But  he  is  a skilled  hunter.  He  skirmishes  every  tree  and 
bush.  He  is  not  so  successful  a wing-shot  as  the  fly- 
catcher, but  he  has  an  eye  that  few  birds  can  equal  in  stalk- 
ing. He  is  no  mean  assistant  of  the  gardener.  He  is  not 
the  kind  that  hoes  a whole  garden  in  a day,  cutting  off  half 
the  new  tender  shoots,  but  he’s  at  work  early  and  late, 
and  he’s  constantly  at  it. 

I kept  run  of  bush-tit  affairs  for  several  days  after  the 
young  had  hatched.  The  father  fed  the  nestlings  as  often 
as  the  mother.  He  generally  paused  a moment  on  the  fern 
tops  just  below  the  nest,  and  by  focusing  our  camera  at 
this  point  we  got  his  picture.  Sometimes  he  would  stop 
at  the  doorway  with  a look  of  inquiry  that  said,  “ What 
do  you  think  of  that  for  a dinner?”  Occasionally  I’ve 


American  Birds 


1 08 

seen  him  swallow  the  morsel  himself.  He  then  justified 
his  conscience  by  appearing  too  timid  to  enter  the  door. 

The  real  drama  of  life  began  when  the  youngsters 
were  fluttering,  full-grown,  vigorous,  impatient  to  get  one 
glimpse  at  the  great  outside  from  where  the  mother  and 
father  came  so  often  with  morsels. 

One  morning  I saw  a pair  of  bright  eyes  pushed  right 
through  the  fibrous  wall  at  my  own  observation  door.  An 
ambitious  youngster  had  seen  the  wall  open  and  close  too 
often  not  to  know  there  was  a way.  He  had  worked  it 
open,  and  it  was  just  where  he  could  sit  and  look  long- 
ingly out. 

The  time  had  come;  we  had  watched  and  waited  two 
weeks  for  this  day.  The  minute  one  nestling  took  the 
idea  into  his  head  .to  get  out  into  the  sunshine,  it  spread 
like  contagion  among  the  whole  household.  They  came 
not  in  singles,  but  in  battalions!  If  we’d  had  a dozen 
eyes  we  couldn’t  have  kept  track  of  them.  We  put  sev- 
eral back  on  a twig  beside  the  nest,  where  they  sat  fluffing 
in  the  warm  sunshine,  enjoying  their  first  outing,  and 
awaiting  their  turns  to  be  fed  rather  impatiently. 

Each  titmouse  had  a tiny  tinkle  for  a voice  that  was 
almost  as  hard  to  hear  as  the  whisper  of  the  flowers.  I 
had  to  strain  my  ears  to  catch  it  more  than  a few  feet 
away.  One  nestling  flew  over  into  the  deep  ferns,  but  I 
might  have  searched  till  doomsday  for  him.  But  the 
mother  knew  where  he  was  the  instant  she  returned. 
Another  flew  down  into  our  camera  box,  and  I shut  the 
lid  to  see  if  the  mother  would  find  him.  She  lit  right  on 
the  box  with  a billsome  morsel,  and  looked  so  uneasy  that 
I had  to  let  her  in.  It  looked  to  me  like  wireless  telegra- 


The  Weaver  of  the  West  109 

phy.  Maybe  the  birds  had  a system  of  long-distance  com- 
munication even  before  man  called  through  a trumpet, 
and  ages  before  he  ever  shipped  his  thoughts  by  wire. 

We  were  fairly  overrun  with  titmice.  They  climbed 
into  our  camera  and  clung  to  our  clothes  as  easily  as  a 
fly  walks  up  a wall.  They  perched  on  our  fingers  and  our 
heads,  and  the  parents  lit  wherever  they  found  the  chil- 
dren. Some  fairy  always  told  the  mother  where  to  go, 
as  she  came  again  and  again  with  green  cutworms  that 
seemed  as  large  as  the  head  of  one  of  her  babies. 

Birds  differ  only  in  size  and  dress  to  some  people,  but 
to  one  who  has  studied  long  and  carefully  at  the  homes 
of  the  different  species  each  feathered  creature  has  a real 
character  of  its  own.  What  does  a cut-and-dried  cata- 
logued description  mean?  “Name,  Psaltriparus  mini- 
mus (Bush-tit).  Nest  in  hemlock  tree  six  feet  from  the 
ground.  Identity,  positive.  Eggs,  seven,  pure  white.” 
This  is  all  right  for  a city  directory,  and  is  almost  as  inter- 
esting. Think  of  labelling  your  friends  in  this  way ! You 
don’t  know  a bush-tit  any  more  when  you  have  found  him 
with  a field-glass  and  identified  him  in  your  bird  manual 
than  you  do  a man  when  you  are  introduced  to  him  and 
shove  his  card  in  your  pocket.  Each  bird  has  a real  indi- 
viduality. Each  is  different  in  character  and  disposition 
from  all  others.  I knew  the  bush-tit  and  chickadee  were 
cousins  before  I ever  heard  of  the  Parade  family.  They 
may  not  look  much  alike  in  dress,  but  aren’t  they  identical 
in  disposition?  They  are  merry  because  they  can’t  look 
on  the  dark  side  of  things.  Let  to-morrow  take  care  of 
itself;  they  live  for  to-day. 

I’ve  watched  the  young  birds  of  many  species  where 


I I o 


American  Birds 


the  parents  care  for  them  a week  or  so  after  they  leave 
the  nest  till  they  are  able  to  hunt  a living  for  themselves; 
then  the  family  scatters  and  loses  identity  in  the  great 
world  of  feathers.  Not  so  with  the  bush-tits:  they  hunt, 
feed,  and  sleep  together,  winter  as  well  as  summer.  Such 
little  talkers ! They  titter  as  much  as  they  hunt  and  eat, 
and  that  is  all  day  long.  When  you  meet  them  in  the 
woodland  it  sounds  like  a fairy’s  wedding  march. 

I found  the  little  family  in  the  hemlock  tree  even  more 
interesting  after  they  all  learned  to  fly.  Several  times  I 
saw  them  about  the  patch  of  woods.  One  day  I stood 
watching  the  flock  of  midgets  in  an  alder  copse.  Each 
youngster  had  learned  to  keep  up  a constant  “Tsre-e! 
Tsre-e!  Tsit!  Tsre-e!”  as  if  always  saying  something, 
but  I do  not  think  this  gossip  was  as  much  for  the  sake 
of  the  conversation  as  merely  to  keep  the  whole  flock 
constantly  together.  While  I was  watching,  three  or  four 
of  the  little  fellows  were  within  a few  feet  of  me.  One 
of  the  parents  in  the  next  tree  began  a shrill,  quavering 
whistle,  and  instantly  it  was  taken  up  by  every  one  of  the 
band.  The  two  tiny  birds  near  me,  as  well  as  every  one 
of  the  others,  froze  to  their  perches.  Had  I not  known, 
I couldn’t  have  told  just  where  the  whistle  was  coming 
from,  it  sounded  so  scattering,  like  the  elusive,  grating 
call  of  the  cicada.  Then  I saw  a hawk  sweeping  slowly 
overhead,  and  the  confusing  chorus  lasted  as  long  as  the 
hawk  was  in  sight;  nor  did  one  of  the  little  bush-tits  seem 
to  move  a feather,  but  just  sit  and  trill  in  perfect  unison. 
It  served  as  a unique  method  of  protection ; the  whole 
flock  had  learned  to  act  as  a unit.  It  would  have  been 
hard  for  an  enemy  to  tell  where  a single  bird  was,  the 


The  Weaver  of  the  West 


i i i 


alarm  note  was  so  deceiving.  They  were  so  motionless 
and  their  clothing  harmonized  so  perfectly  with  the  shad- 
ows of  the  foliage. 

Millions  of  destructive  insects  lay  their  eggs,  live  and 
multiply  in  the  buds  and  bark  of  trees,  and  it  seems  the 
bush-tit’s  life-work  to  keep  this  horde  in  check.  After  the 
little  family  left  their  home  I never  found  them  quiet  for 
a minute.  When  they  took  possession  of  a tree  they  took 
it  by  storm.  It  looked  as  if  it  had  suddenly  grown  wings 
and  every  limb  was  alive.  They  turned  every  leaf,  looked 
into  every  cranny,  and  scratched  up  the  moss  and  lichens. 
They  hung  by  their  toes  to  peek  into  every  bud;  they 
swung  around  the  branches  to  pry  into  every  crack;  then, 
in  a few  moments,  they  tilted  off  to  the  next  tree  to  con- 
tinue the  hunt. 


THE  BUSH-TIT  FAMILY 

The  Bush-tits  are  the  dwarfs  of  the  chickadee  family.  They  are 
four  inches  in  length  and  half  of  this  is  tail.  They  have  very  short  bills 
and  tiny  gray  bodies.  The  bush-tits  are  exclusively  western,  and  are 
remarkable  nest  builders.  They  live  on  insect  eggs,  scale,  plant-lice, 
caterpillars,  and  other  injurious  insects. 

Bush-tit  ( Psaltriparus  minimus)'.  Male  and  female,  uniform  gray  in 
color,  darker  above  and  lighter  below;  scarcely  larger  than  a humming- 
bird in  size,  but  with  a tail  as  long  as  body.  Found  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 
Nests  in  April  and  May.  Nest,  hanging  and  gourd-shaped,  with  small 
hole  near  the  top.  Eggs,  five  to  nine,  and  pure  white. 


JIMMY  THE  BUTCHER-BIRD 


XI 


JIMMY  THE  BUTCHER-BIRD 

THE  first  time  I saw  Jimmy  he  was  doubled  up  in  a 
fluffy  ball  with  his  head  under  his  wing.  For  a bed 
he  had  taken  a eucalyptus  limb  that  hung  on  the  back 
porch.  He  had  been  brought  in  with  another  nestling  by  a 
small  boy,  who  said  that  the  mother  had  “ died  of  a cat.” 
There  was  a question  at  the  time  as  to  whether  this  was 
the  real  cause  of  her  taking-off,  but  the  fact  remained  that 
the  bantlings  were  in  danger  of  starvation.  With  two 
orphans  on  her  hands,  there  was  nothing  left  for  our 
neighbor  to  do  but  to  adopt  them.  A little  fresh  meat 
seemed  to  revive  the  two  bobtailed  youngsters,  but  the 
smaller  of  the  two  was  not  long  for  this  world,  and  in  a 
few  days  one  young  Butcher-bird  ( Lanins  ludiovicianus 
gambeli ) was  left. 

Yes,  a butcher-bird  for  a pet.  Might  as  well  adopt 
a cannibal  or  become  a foreign  missionary,  one  of  our 
friends  thought.  But  helplessness  always  arouses  pity,  and 
some  of  us  like  a bird  merely  because  he  is  a bird. 

Some  one  has  said  that  man’s  interest  in  birds  lies  in 
the  fact  that  we  were  birds  ourselves  before  we  reached 
the  human  stage.  An  angel  is  a child  with  wings.  How 
much  bird  actions  are  like  human  actions ! They  frolic 
and  they  toil.  What  other  animal  approaches  nearer  to 
man  as  a home  builder  and  housekeeper  than  the  bird? 
And,  after  all,  this  young  orphan  butcher-bird  could 

”5 


American  Birds 


1 1 6 

hardly  be  blamed  for  the  sins  of  his  ancestors,  even  though 
his  own  parents  had  likely  murdered  a caged  canary  that 
had  lived  not  far  away.  He  was  the  son  of  a murderer, 
hut  by  adoption  into  a respectable  family  who  could  tell 
but  that  this  fledgling  might  develop  into  a bird  of  good 
qualities?  We  were  of  the  opinion  that  a shrike  had  no 
good  qualities,  that  he  was  a butcher  pure  and  simple,  and 
killed  his  own  kind  for  the  pure  taste  of  blood  and  brains. 
In  fact,  the  first  impression  I ever  got  of  a shrike  or 
butcher-bird  was  when  I was  called  out  to  the  back  porch 
and  saw  our  tame  canary  lying  headless  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cage. 

But  even  though  the  shrike  is  the  enemy  of  the  small 
birds,  they  do  not  seem  to  realize  that  he  is  dangerous.  I 
have  often  seen  birds  pay  no  more  attention  to  a shrike 
than  to  a robin.  Perhaps  he  does  not  attack  the  birds  in 
the  open,  where  they  can  fly  and  dodge  and  get  away.  I 
think  the  shrike  likes  caged  birds  best,  those  he  can  scare 
and  catch  through  the  bars  and  tear  to  pieces  as  the  victim 
is  held  by  the  wires. 

The  shrike  is  called  the  butcher-bird  from  its  habit  of 
hanging  its  meat  on  a hook  or  in  a crotch.  He  is  much  the 
same  size  and  form  as  the  blue  jay.  He  has  a grayish 
coat.  I generally  see  him  flying  about  the  fields  and  occa- 
sionally lighting  in  the  stubble,  where  he  picks  up  crickets, 
grasshoppers,  and  mice.  The  habit  of  the  shrike  in  impal- 
ing its  food  on  thorns  or  fastening  it  in  crotches  comes  as 
a necessity  to  the  bird  in  tearing  its  food.  It  has  a hooked 
bill,  but  is  not  equipped  like  the  hawks  and  owls  with 
talons  to  hold  its  food.  Although  this  bird  undoubtedly 
kills  some  small  songsters,  we  wanted  to  find  out  whether 


Jimmy  the  Butcher-bird  117 

under  different  circumstances  he  would  change  his  bar- 
barous traits. 

Can  a wild  bird  be  civilized?  Can  he  retain  his 
freedom  and  yet  put  off  his  bad  habits?  When  he  begins 
to  hunt  his  own  food,  will  he  know  that  it  is  right  to  hunt 
beetles,  grasshoppers,  and  mice,  but  against  the  law  to  kill 
goldfinches? 

Jimmy  was  given  the  freedom  of  the  back  porch. 
This  was  a large  apartment,  and  was  well  screened.  Some 
branches  were  hung  up  to  make  the  place  look  as  woodsy 
as  possible,  and  a special  table  was  built  for  the  new 
arrival.  In  two  or  three  weeks  he  was  able  to  fly  quite 
well,  and  it  was  decided  to  give  him  the  freedom  of  the 
back  yard.  It  was  the  real  nature  of  the  bird  that  we 
wanted  to  study,  the  wild  bird  under  civilized  circum- 
stances, but  not  in  a cage. 

It  did  not  take  Jimmy  long  to  make  friends  and  to 
know  his  mistress.  He  was  awake  and  squealing  at  day- 
light. He  fluttered  at  the  window,  and  the  minute  the 
door  opened  he  was  in  the  kitchen  and  perched  on  the 
shoulder  or  arm  of  his  mistress,  begging  to  be  fed.  There 
was  no  doubt  as  to  his  preference;  he  wanted  fresh  meat. 
When  the  door  of  the  back  porch  was  opened  and  Jimmy 
was  invited  to  go  out  into  the  yard  and  learn  to  find  his 
own  breakfast,  he  accepted  the  invitation  with  eagerness. 
He  poked  around  through  the  rose-bushes  and  along  the 
fence  more  from  curiosity  than  with  the  idea  of  getting 
something  to  eat.  He  often  perched  in  the  pear  tree. 
Then,  when  he  was  hungry,  he  hopped  back  to  the  porch, 
for  he  knew  the  table  was  always  set  there. 

Jimmy  was  lazy  when  it  came  to  hunting  his  own 


1 1 8 


American  Birds 


living.  The  fact  that  he  had  a free  lunch-counter  at  his 
back  poixh  home  he  did  not  forget.  That  seemed  to  be 
the  binding  link.  He  would  go  about  the  yard  and  up 
into  the  trees,  and  he  got  to  wandering  farther  and  far- 
ther; but  he  would  always  come  back  several  times  during 
the  day  for  food.  He  knew  his  name  as  well  as  a person 
does,  and  would  come  immediately  if  he  were  within  call- 
ing distance. 

As  Jimmy  grew  older  he  developed  into  a fine-looking 
bird.  His  coat  was  a slate-gray  above  and  a dull  whitish 
color  below.  He  soon  developed  remarkable  likes  and  dis- 
likes. I would  hardly  have  believed  that  a bird  could  have 
shown  so  much  knowledge  had  I not  seen  it  myself.  We 
are  too  apt  to  think  there  is  little  real  intelligence  in 
the  bird  brain.  I have  often  wished  I could  fathom 
the  thoughts  that  Jimmy  had  as  he  sat  in  his  master’s 
room  for  hours  at  a time  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
when  it  was  raining,  or  when  he  hopped  about  the  kitchen, 
picking  up  and  prying  into  things,  or  when  he  stopped  to 
look  his  mistress  in  the  eye  and  chuckle  with  a side  turn 
of  his  head.  He  had  the  range  of  the  house  and  the  range 
of  the  outdoors,  yet  he  often  preferred  to  stay  indoors 
when  he  took  human  company  to  bird  company.  He  knew 
his  home  as  well  as  the  dog  did.  But  Jimmy  didn’t  like 
dogs  or  cats. 

When  he  had  the  freedom  of  the  house  he  liked  to 
tease,  and  his  teasing  turned  to  a pet  mockingbird  that 
was  kept  in  a cage.  At  first  Jimmy  would  sit  on  the  table 
and  watch.  Then  he  took  to  flying  on  the  top  of  the  cage, 
and  this  worried  the  mocker,  who  didn’t  want  any  one  on 
the  cage  above  his  head.  But  it  pleased  Jimmy,  and  he 


Jimmy  the  Butcher-bird  119 

would  hop  back  and  forth  in  a threatening  way.  This 
happened  several  times,  till  one  day  the  mocker  had  his 
chance;  I think  he  had  been  waiting  for  it.  Jimmy  was 
on  the  side  of  the  cage  with  his  feet  hooked  in  the  wires, 
when  the  mocker  suddenly  grabbed  him  by  the  toe  and 
gave  it  such  a sharp  pull  that  Jimmy  squealed  in  pain.  It 
was  a pure  case  of  revenge,  and  the  mocker  enjoyed  it. 
It  gave  a good  insight  as  to  how  quick  Jimmy  could  learn, 
for  he  kept  oft  the  cage  after  that,  and  did  not  tease  the 
mockingbird. 

Gradually  Jimmy’s  freedom  of  the  house  was  taken 
from  him.  He  couldn’t  be  trusted  to  leave  anything  in 
order.  He  knocked  things  off  the  bureau,  broke  a painted 
china  cup,  and  he  always  wanted  to  taste  out  of  every  dish 
on  the  table.  He  stuck  his  feet  in  a dish  of  jam,  and  then 
tracked  it  across  the  table.  And  how  he  liked  butter ! He 
dipped  right  in  the  instant  he  saw  butter,  and  that  was  his 
first  thought  when  the  pantry  door  was  open. 

One  day  when  the  kitchen  was  closed  Jimmy  found 
the  window  of  the  east  room  upstairs  open  and  in  he  went, 
and  soon  appeared  in  the  dining-room,  helping  himself. 
After  that  the  window  was  kept  shut,  but  Jimmy  would 
go  anyway  and  peck  on  the  glass  till  he  was  let  in.  His 
master  often  sat  there,  and  that  became  Jimmy’s  favorite 
room.  All  during  the  wdnter  on  rainy  days  he  liked  to 
stay  in  that  room.  The  window  looked  directly  out  to  the 
east  over  a waste  of  weeds  and  sage-brush.  This  was 
Jimmy’s  hunting-ground;  he  always  went  out  that  way 
when  he  wanted  to  hunt,  for  that  was  the  only  unculti- 
vated tract  about  the  house.  That  was  the  place  he  hunted 
grasshoppers  and  crickets.  His  favorite  perch  was  the 


I 20 


American  Birds 


back  of  a chair  near  the  window,  where  he  could  look  out 
over  the  slope,  and  here  he  would  sit  for  an  hour  at  a time, 
as  if  thinking.  And  how  do  we  know  but  that  he  was 
going  over  many  of  his  hunts  and  hairbreadth  escapes  and 
thinking  of  the  springtime  that  was  coming  and  the  new 
experiences  it  would  bring? 

Out  in  front  of  the  house  was  a concrete  basin  where 
the  water-lilies  grew.  The  lily-pads  were  large  enough  to 
support  a bird,  and  the  linnets  and  goldfinches  used  them 
for  bath-tubs.  I think  the  birds  came  for  a mile  around  to 
get  water  here,  for  there  was  hardly  a time  during  the  hot 
days  when  some  visitors  did  not  come  either  to  wash  or  to 
drink.  Jimmy  often  watched  the  performance  and  seemed 
interested,  but  he  knew  better  than  to  prey  upon  birds. 
His  home  training  had  gone  deep  enough  for  that,  and 
he  had  been  civilized  to  that  extent. 

Jimmy  didn’t  bathe  very  often  himself,  but  when  he 
did  he  simply  soaked  himself  till  he  couldn’t  fly.  For 
some  reason  he  preferred  the  irrigating  ditch;  there  he 
had  plenty  of  running  water.  Perhaps  he  thought  the 
basin  where  every  tramp  bird  bathed  was  not  clean  enough. 
He  selected  a shallow  place  and  waded  in  to  his  middle; 
then  he  began  bobbing  and  throwing  water,  and  he  kept 
it  up  till  he  was  so  tired  and  heavy  he  could  hardly  crawl 
out. 

When  it  came  to  dealing  with  other  people,  Jimmy  had 
many  interesting  experiences.  He  was  bold  and  fearless, 
no  matter  whether  he  knew  the  person  or  not.  One  day 
when  Jimmy  had  been  gone  several  hours  he  was  brought 
home  by  one  of  the  neighbors.  A carpenter  was  at  work 
on  the  top  of  his  house,  when  Jimmy,  apparently  in  fun, 


I 2 I 


Jimmy  the  Butcher-bird 

had  swooped  down  and  lit  on  his  shoulder  and  began 
screeching  in  his  ear.  The  workman  was  so  astonished 
that  he  almost  fell  from  his  position  when  he  felt  this 
strange  bird  fluttering  about  his  head;  he  dodged  as  if 
he  were  trying  to  get  rid  of  a swarm  of  bees.  He  didn’t 
know  whether  to  fight  or  not.  But  he  was  soon  assured 
that  the  bird  was  only  playing. 

For  some  reason  Jimmy  did  not  like  the  gardener.  His 
mistress  thought  it  was  because  the  man  wore  such  ragged 
clothes.  She  said  he  always  took  to  people  who  were 
dressed  up,  and  was  friendly  in  every  way,  but  the  minute 
a workingman  came  about  Jimmy  would  squall  and  peck 
and  show  his  anger.  When  the  gardener  was  hoeing, 
Jimmy  would  fly  down  at  his  feet  and  get  in  the  way,  or 
he  would  hop  along  in  front  of  the  wheelbarrow  or  ride 
on  the  front,  squealing  his  disapproval.  Twice  he  lit  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  gardener  and  bit  him  in  the  neck  till 
the  blood  came.  This  was  carrying  his  opinions  to  such 
an  extent  that  his  mistress  caught  him  and  clipped  the  little 
hook  on  his  bill.  This  served  as  a sort  of  a muzzle,  so  he 
could  not  bite  so  hard. 

The  instinct  was  strong  in  Jimmy  to  hang  his  food  on 
a nail  or  in  a crack  so  he  could  tear  it  to  pieces.  He  often 
brought  in  insects  from  the  field,  and  would  always  fly 
direct  to  the  hand  of  his  mistress,  because  she  so  often 
held  his  meat  in  her  hand  for  him  to  eat.  He  would  light 
on  her  shoulder  with  a screech  and  a side  turn  of  his  head 
that  said,  “ Hold  this  for  me,  quick,  till  I eat  it ! ” And 
if  she  didn’t,  he  showed  great  impatience.  But  this  habit 
of  Jimmy’s  was  distasteful  at  times,  for  he  brought  in 
a variety  of  things  from  dead  mice  to  crickets,  worms,  and 


I 22 


American  Birds 


beetles.  One  day  when  a fashionably-dressed  lady  was 
being  entertained  on  the  front  porch  Jimmy  suddenly  ap- 
peared and  lit  on  her  shoulder  with  a very  large  beetle. 
The  reception  he  got  surprised  him,  for  a bird  thrusting 
a big,  ugly  beetle  in  her  face  was  too  much  for  the  lady, 
and  she  threw  up  her  hands  in  horror  and  fled,  while 
Jimmy  sat  looking  in  amazement. 

The  wicker-backed  rocking-chair  on  the  front  porch 
was  a favorite  of  Jimmy’s,  for  he  could  fasten  his  food  in 
the  cracks  of  it.  One  day  his  mistress  found  a mouse  that 
he  had  left  there,  very  likely  with  the  intention  of  call- 
ing for  it  when  he  got  hungry.  By  watching  the  various 
kinds  of  food  that  Jimmy  brought  in,  we  readily  estimated 
that  his  hunts  were  of  much  more  good  than  harm.  Even 
the  wild  shrike  that  kills  a small  bird  occasionally  kills 
more  than  enough  harmful  insects  to  make  up  for  its  de- 
struction. 

As  the  winter  passed  and  spring  wore  on,  Jimmy  ex- 
tended his  visits.  He  must  have  looked  and  hunted  far- 
ther away,  for  often  he  would  be  gone  for  half  a day  at 
a time.  But  he  always  returned  to  the  eucalyptus  bough 
on  the  back  porch,  and  the  door  was  always  open  for  him 
and  closed  when  he  was  in  bed.  Then  one  day  in  March 
he  did  not  return.  But  he  got  back  next  morning  about 
ten  o’clock,  and  came  pecking  and  crying  at  the  window. 
He  seemed  overjoyed  to  get  back,  but,  after  staying  about 
for  a while,  he  got  restless.  It  was  evident  that  there  was 
an  influence  somewhere  out  beyond  the  sage-brush  that 
was  stronger  than  his  home  life.  Something  else  was  call- 
ing him.  It  was  only  a matter  of  time  till  he  would  cease 
to  sleep  on  the  porch. 


I23 


Jimmy  the  Butcher-bird 

About  two  weeks  later  Jimmy  was  seen  for  the  last 
time.  There  were  two  shrikes  out  in  the  low  oaks  beyond 
the  irrigating  ditch.  One  came  sweeping  across  from  the 
hill,  flapping  his  short  wings  and  screeching  his  greet- 
ings in  butcher-bird  tongue.  He  paused  just  long  enough 
on  the  fence  to  see  that  his  companion  had  disappeared. 
With  a loud  squawk  Jimmy  turned  back  to  find  her,  for 
that  was  his  new  mistress. 

THE  SHRIKE  OR  BUTCHER-BIRD  FAMILY 

The  Shrikes  may  be  recognized  by  the  powerful  head  and  neck 
and  the  hooked  bill.  Length,  about  nine  inches.  Bluish-gray  in  color. 
They  are  bold  and  fearless  and  feed  on  insects,  mice,  and  small  birds, 
which  they  impale  on  thorns  and  sharp  twigs. 

White-rumped  Shrike  (Lanius  ludovicianus  excubitorides),  Butcher- 
bird: Male  and  female,  upper  parts  pale  ashy-gray;  narrow  black  stripe 
across  forehead  through  eye;  under  parts  and  rump,  white;  wings  and 
tail,  black  with  white  markings.  Found  in  middle  and  eastern  North 
America,  where  it  nests  in  hedges  and  thorn-trees.  Eggs,  four  to  six, 
grayish,  covered  with  brown  spots. 

The  Northern  Shrike  is  very  similar  but  is  seen  only  from  November 
to  April  as  a roving  winter  resident. 

California  Shrike  ( Lanius  ludovicianus  gambeli ):  Pacific  Coast  form, 
identical  with  White-rumped  Shrike. 


THE  WARBLER  AND  HIS  WAYS 


XII 


THE  WARBLER  AND  HIS  WAYS 

DURING  the  warm  days  of  June,  I often  frequent  a 
woody  retreat  above  the  old  mill-dam  on  Fulton 
Creek.  The  water  gurgles  among  the  gray  rocks  and 
glides  past  a clump  of  firs  and  maples.  Star-flowers  gleam 
from  the  darker  places  of  shade,  white  anemones  are  scat- 
tered in  the  green  of  the  grass  blades  and  ferns,  and  Lin- 
naean  bells  overhang  the  moss-covered  logs. 

As  one  sits  here  in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  the  chords 
of  every  sense  are  stretched.  The  nostrils  sniff  the  scent 
of  the  fir  boughs  tipped  with  their  new  growth  of  lighter 
green.  The  eye  catches  the  cautious  movements  of  furry 
and  feathered  creatures.  The  heart  beats  in  tune  with  the 
forest  pulse. 

One  day  as  I lay  idling  in  this  favorite  haunt  a 
shadow,  caught  in  the  net  of  sunbeams,  spread  under  the 
maple.  A Black-throated  Gray  Warbler  (Den dr oica 
nigrescens)  fidgeted  on  the  limb  above  with  a straw  in  her 
bill.  This  was  pleasing.  I had  searched  the  locality  for 
years,  trying  to  find  the  home  of  this  shy  bird,  and  here 
was  a piece  of  evidence  thrust  squarely  in  my  face. 

The  site  of  the  nest  was  twelve  feet  from  the  ground 
in  the  top  of  a sapling.  A week  and  a half  later  I parted 
the  branches  and  found  a cup  of  grasses,  feather-lined, 
nestled  in  the  fork  of  the  fir.  There  lay  four  eggs  of  a 
pinkish  tinge,  touched  with  dots  of  brown. 

127 


American  Birds 


i 28 

The  chief  source  of  satisfaction  in  a camera  study  of 
bird  life  comes  not  in  the  odd-time  chances  of  observa- 
tion, but  in  a continued  period  of  leisure  when  one  may 
spend  his  entire  time  about  bird  homes  just  as  he  takes  a 
week’s  vacation  at  the  sea-shore.  One  cannot  take  a cam- 
era, no  matter  how  expensive  it  is,  and  snap  off  good  bird 
pictures  during  the  spare  moments  of  a busy  day.  He 
might,  however,  fill  half  a dozen  note-books  with  valuable 
odd-time  observations.  To  be  sure,  the  joy  of  nature 
comes  to  the  amateur,  not  to  the  professional,  but  to  be  a 
successful  amateur  bird-photographer  one  has  fairly  to 
make  a business  of  lying  in  wait  for  his  subjects  hour  after 
hour,  day  by  day,  and  maybe  week  after  week.  The  re- 
ward of  real  success  comes  not  in  mere  acquaintanceship 
with  some  feathered  bit  of  flying  life,  but  in  real  friend- 
ship; there  cannot  be  the  formality  of  a society  call,  but  one 
should,  by  frequent  visits,  be  well  enough  acquainted  to 
drop  in  at  any  time  with  his  camera  without  interfering 
with  the  daily  affairs  of  family  life. 

The  real  value  of  photography  is  that  it  records  the 
truth.  The  person  who  photographs  birds  successfully 
has  to  study  his  subjects  long  and  carefully.  He  is  likely, 
therefore,  to  get  a good  set  of  notes,  and  not  to  be 
compelled  to  complete  his  observations  when  he  is  seated 
in  the  comfortable  chair  of  his  study.  Of  course,  in  the 
study  of  art,  we  may  try  to  improve  on  nature,  but  in 
nature  study  truth  is  the  chief  thing.  We  must  under- 
stand that  a beast  or  bird  is  interesting  for  its  own  wild 
sake. 

Of  course  it  showed  a pure  lack  of  discretion  to  try  to 
picture  the  home  of  such  a shy  warbler  during  the  days  of 


The  Warbler  and  His  Ways  129 

incubation,  but  I half  believe  the  feathered  owners  would 
have  overlooked  this  had  it  not  been  for  the  pair  of  blue 
jays  that  buccaneered  that  patch  of  fir.  While  we  were 
getting  a picture  I saw  them  eyeing  us  curiously,  but  they 
slunk  away  among  the  dark  firs  squawking  jay-talk  about 
something  I didn’t  understand.  Two  days  later  we  skirted 
the  clump  to  see  if  the  warblers  had  been  too  severely 
shocked  by  the  camera.  In  an  instant  I translated  every 
syllable  of  what  that  pair  of  blue  pirates  had  squawked. 
The  scattered  remnants  of  the  nest  and  the  broken  bits 
of  shell  told  all. 

These  gray  warblers,  however  much  they  were  upset 
by  the  camera-fiend  and  blue  jay  raid,  were  not  to  be 
undone.  They  actually  went  to  housekeeping  again  within 
forty  yards  of  the  old  home  site.  The  new  nest  was 
placed  in  a fir  sapling  very  like  the  first,  but  better  hidden 
from  marauding  blue  jays.  It  was  far  better  suited  to  the 
photographer.  Just  at  the  side  of  the  new  site  was  the 
sawed-off  stump  of  an  old  fir  upon  which  we  climbed 
and  aimed  the  camera  straight  into  the  nest.  There, 
instead  of  four,  were  only  two  small  nestlings.  They 
stretched  their  skinny  necks  and  opened  wide  their  yellow- 
lined  mouths  in  unmistakable  hunger. 

The  moment  the  mother  returned  and  found  us  so 
dangerously  near  her  brood  she  was  scared  almost  out 
of  her  senses.  She  fell  from  the  top  of  the  tree  in  a flutter- 
ing fit.  She  caught  quivering  on  the  limb  a foot  from 
my  hand.  Involuntarily  I reached  to  help  her.  Poor 
thing!  She  couldn’t  hold  on,  but  slipped  through  the 
branches  and  clutched  my  shoe.  I never  saw  such  an  ex- 
aggerated case  of  the  chills,  or  heard  such  a pitiful  high- 


I3° 


American  Birds 


pitched  note  of  pain.  I stooped  to  see  what  ailed  her. 
What,  both  wings  broken  and  unable  to  hold  with  her 
claws!  She  wavered  like  an  autumn  leaf  to  the  ground. 
I leaped  down,  but  she  had  limped  under  a bush  and  sud- 
denly got  well.  Of  course,  I knew  she  was  tricking  me. 

The  next  day  my  heart  was  hardened  against  all  her 
alluring  ways  and  her  crocodile  tears.  She  played  her  best, 
but  the  minute  she  failed  to  win  I got  a furious  berating. 
It  was  no  begging  note  now.  She  perched  over  my  head 
and  called  me  every  name  in  the  warbler  vocabulary. 
Then  she  saw  that  we  were  actually  shoving  that  cyclopian 
monster  right  at  her  children.  “ Fly ! Fly  for  your  lives ! ” 
she  screamed  in  desperation.  Both  the  scanty-feathered, 
bobtailed  youngsters  jumped  blindly  out  of  the  nest  into 
the  bushes  below.  The  mother  outdid  all  previous  per- 
formances. She  simply  doubled  and  twisted  in  agonized 
death  spasms.  But,  not  to  be  fooled,  I kept  an  eye  on 
one  nestling  and  soon  replaced  him  in  the  nest  where  he 
belonged.  Nature  always  hides  such  creatures  by  the  sim- 
ple wave  of  her  wand.  I’ve  seen  a flock  of  half  a dozen 
grouse  flutter  up  into  a fir  and  disappear  to  my  eyes  as 
mysteriously  as  fog  in  the  sunshine. 

This  fidgety  bit  of  featherhood  is  called  the  black- 
throated  gray  warbler,  but  it’s  only  the  male  that  has  a 
black  throat.  He  is  not  the  whole  species.  His  wife 
wears  a white  cravat  and  she,  to  my  thinking,  is  a deal 
more  important  in  warbler  affairs.  Mr.  Warbler  seemed 
to  be  kept  away  from  home  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
when  the  children  were  crying  for  food. 

The  first  day  I really  met  the  gentleman  face  to  face 
we  were  trying  to  get  a photograph  of  the  mother  as 


The  Warbler  and  His  Ways  131 

she  came  home  to  feed.  She  had  got  quite  used  to  the 
camera.  We  had  it  levelled  point-blank  at  the  nest,  only 
a yard  distant.  A gray  figure  came  flitting  over  the  tree- 
top  and  planted  himself  on  the  limb  right  beside  his  home. 
He  carried  a green  cutworm  in  his  mouth.  No  sooner 
had  he  squatted  on  his  accustomed  perch  than  he  caught 
sight  of  the  camera.  With  an  astonished  chirp  he  dropped 
his  worm,  turned  a back  somersault,  and  all  I saw  was  a 
streak  of  gray  curving  up  over  the  pointed  firs.  I doubt 
if  he  lit  or  felt  any  degree  of  safety  till  he  reached  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river. 

We  met  his  lordship  again  the  following  day.  The 
mother  was  doing  her  best  to  lure  us  from  the  nest  by  her 
cunning  tricks.  Every  visit  we  had  made  she  kept  prac- 
tising the  same  old  game.  Just  as  she  was  putting  on  a 
few  extra  touches  of  agony  I saw  a glint  of  gray.  The 
father  darted  at  the  deceiving  mother.  I never  saw  such  a 
case  of  wife -beating.  Maybe  she  deserved  it.  I don’t  know 
whether  he  blamed  her  for  my  presence  and  interference, 
or  whether  he  wanted  all  her  time  and  attention  devoted 
to  the  care  of  the  children.  She  didn’t  practise  deceit 
any  more. 

I could  not  tell  one  nestling  from  the  other.  As  I 
sat  watching  the  mother  the  questions  often  arose  in  my 
mind:  Does  she  recognize  one  child  from  the  other? 
Does  she  feed  them  in  turn,  or  does  she  poke  the  food 
down  the  first  open  mouth  she  sees?  Here  is  a good  chance 
to  experiment  I thought.  So  with  a good  supply  of  5 x 7 
plates  we  watched  and  photographed  from  early  in  the 
morning  till  late  in  the  afternoon  for  three  days.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  we  had  eight  pictures,  or  rather  four 


1 32 


American  Birds 


pairs,  each  of  which  was  taken  in  the  same  order  as  the 
mother  fed  her  young. 

The  warblers  foraged  the  firs  for  insects  of  all  sizes 
and  colors.  The  mother  often  brought  in  green  cutworms, 
which  she  rolled  through  her  bill  as  a housewife  runs 
washing  through  a wringer,  either  to  kill  the  creature  or 
to  be  sure  it  was  soft  and  billsome.  This  looked  like  a 
waste  of  time  to  me.  The  digestive  organs  of  those  bob- 
tailed bantlings  seemed  equal  to  almost  any  insect  I had 
ever  seen. 

In  the  days  I spent  about  the  nest  I never  saw  the 
time  when  both  the  bairns  were  not  in  a starving  mood, 
regardless  of  the  amount  of  dinner  they  had  just  swal- 
lowed. The  flutter  of  wings  seemed  to  touch  the  button 
that  opened  their  mouths.  At  the  slightest  sound  I’ve 
often  seen  disputes  arise  while  the  mother  was  away.  “ I’ll 
take  the  next,”  said  one.  “ I guess  you’ll  not!  ” screamed 
the  other.  The  mother  paid  no  more  attention  to  their 
quarrels  and  entreaties  than  to  the  ceaseless  gurgle  of 
the  water.  How  could  she?  I don’t  believe  she  ever 
caught  sight  of  her  children  when  their  mouths  were  not 
open.  The  fact  that  the  mother  fed  them  impartially 
appealed  in  no  way  to  their  sense  of  justice.  The  one 
that  got  the  meal  quivered  his  wings  in  ecstasy,  while  the 
other  always  protested  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

The  first  pair  of  pictures  in  the  series  was  taken  while 
the  young  were  still  in  the  nest.  The  mother  fed  the 
nearest  nestling.  Changing  the  plate  and  adjusting  the 
camera  again  I had  to  wait  only  three  minutes.  The  bairn 
at  the  edge  of  the  nest  surely  had  the  advantage  of  posi- 
tion, but  what  was  position?  For  all  his  begging  the 


The  Warbler  and  His  Ways  133 

nearest  got  a knock  on  the  ear  that  sent  him  bawling, 
while  his  brother  gulped  down  a fat  spider. 

Soon  after  one  of  the  bantlings  hopped  out  on  the 
limb,  and  the  gray  mother  rewarded  him  with  a mouth- 
ful that  fairly  made  his  eyes  bulge.  On  her  return  she 
did  not  forget  the  hungry,  more  timid  fledgling  in  the  nest. 

Again  I tried  the  experiment  of  having  the  mother 
light  between  her  clamoring  children.  First  the  right 
one  received  a toothsome  morsel,  notwithstanding  the  im- 
patient exclamations  of  the  chick  on  the  left.  Soon  after 
the  hungry  bairn  on  the  left  got  a juicy  bite,  in  spite 
of  the  loud  appeals  from  the  right. 

“ This  way  I’ll  fool  the  mother,”  I thought,  as  I 
perched  both  bantlings  on  a small  limb  where  they  could 
be  fed  only  from  the  right.  This  looked  good  to  the 
first  little  chick,  for  he  seemed  to  reason  that  when  he 
opened  his  mouth  his  mother  could  not  resist  his  plead- 
ings. He  reasoned  rightly  the  first  time.  On  the  second 
appearance  of  his  mother  position  did  not  count  for  much; 
it  was  his  brother’s  turn. 

Later  in  the  day  I watched  the  gray  warbler  coax 
her  two  children  from  the  fir  into  the  thick  protecting 
bushes  below.  With  the  keen  sense  of  bird  motherhood 
she  led  them  on,  and  they  followed  out  into  the  world 
of  bird  experience. 


THE  WOOD  WARBLER  FAMILY 

This  is  one  of  the  largest  families  of  North  American  birds.  The 
Warblers  are  five  inches  or  less  in  length.  They  are  all  migratory;  they 
live  almost  entirely  on  insects.  The  bill  is  narrow  and,  like  the  feet. 


1 34 


American  Birds 


delicately  formed.  The  bird  is  often  beautifully  colored,  quick  and 
active,  flitting  incessantly  among  the  leaves. 

Yellow  Warbler  ( Dendroica  cestiva),  Summer  Yellow-bird:  Male, 
above,  rich  yellow,  brightening  on  rump;  breast  and  under  parts  golden 
yellow;  breast  streaked  with  brown.  Female,  less  brightly  colored. 
Our  commonest  warbler  living  throughout  North  America  at  large, 
arriving  from  the  South  in  May  and  remaining  till  September.  Nest, 
a small,  well-rounded  cup  in  the  fork  of  a bush  or  tree.  Eggs,  four  or 
five,  grayish-white,  spotted  with  lilac  or  red-brown. 

Some  of  the  other  common  warblers  that  may  be  found  living 
throughout  the  eastern  states  are  the  Black  and  White  Warbler,  striped 
above  with  the  colors  for  which  it  is  named,  and  having  a white  breast. 
Blue-winged  Warbler,  with  slatish-blue  wings  and  white  bars,  forehead 
and  under  parts  yellow,  with  dark  stripe  through  eye.  Nashville  War- 
bler, yellow  below,  above,  olive-green,  brightening  on  rump  and  shoul- 
ders, slate-gray  head  and  neck.  Parula  Warbler,  above  slate-blue,  chin 
and  throat  yellow,  wings  brownish  with  two  white  bars,  white  belly  with 
red-brown  band  across  breast.  Myrtle  Warbler,  slate  color,  striped  and 
streaked  with  black;  crown,  sides  of  breast  and  rump  yellow,  white 
throat,  upper  breast  black  and  whitish  below,  white  bars  on  wings  and 
white  spots  on  tail.  Chestnut-sided  Warbler,  throat  and  breast  white 
with  chestnut  stripe  extending  down  sides,  top  of  head  yellow,  black  stripe 
running  through  eye  and  black  spot  in  front.  Black-poll  Warbler,  black 
cap,  upper  parts  striped  with  black,  olive,  and  gray,  breast  white  with 
black  streaks,  white  spots  on  outer  tail  feathers.  Blackburnian  Warbler, 
crown  black  with  orange  patch,  black  wings  and  tail  with  white  mark- 
ings, throat  brilliant  yellow,  rest  of  under  parts  pale  yellowish.  Black- 
throated  Green  Warbler,  crown  and  back  olive-yellow,  sides  of  head 
clear  yellow,  throat  and  upper  breast  black  and  black  stripe  down  sides, 
lower  parts  yellowish-white,  wings  and  tail  brownish  with  white  wing- 
bars.  American  Redstart,  upper  parts  blue-black,  white  belly,  sides  of 
body  and  lining  of  wings  orange,  tail  feathers  half  orange  and  half 
black. 

On  the  Pacific  Coast  the  Black-throated  Gray  Warbler  has  the 
head,  throat,  and  chest  black  except  for  white  streaks  on  side  of  head 
and  along  throat;  yellow  dot  in  front  of  eye;  breast  and  belly  pure  white; 


A. 


The  Warbler  and  His  Ways  135 

back  gray  streaked  with  black;  wings  with  two  white  bars.  Audubon 
Warbler  is  the  western  representative  of  the  Myrtle  Warbler  and  is 
marked  similarly,  except  that  the  throat  is  yellow.  Lutescent  Warbler, 
upper  parts  dull  olive-green,  brighter  on  rump  ; under  parts  bright 
greenish  yellow  ; crown  with  dull  orange  patch  concealed  by  olive  tips 
of  feathers. 


KINGFISHERS 


XIII 


KINGFISHERS 

I’LL  clothe  and  equip  each  of  my  creatures  for  a 
special  work,  and  give  him  some  particular  thing 
to  do,”  says  Nature.  “ I’ll  give  the  hummingbird  a long 
bill  to  suck  honey  from  the  flower-cups.  I’ll  give  the  night- 
hawk  a big  mouth  to  catch  flies.  I’ll  give  the  grosbeak 
a large,  powerful  bill  to  crack  seeds.  I’ll  give  the  snipe 
long  legs  to  wade  in  the  mud  and  water  and  find  his  food. 
I’ll  give  the  woodpecker  a chisel-shaped  bill  to  bore  holes 
in  the  trees.  I’ll  give  the  owl  eyes  that  see  at  night-time, 
and  strong  claws  and  a hooked  beak  to  catch  mice  and 
other  harmful  beasts.  Every  creature  will  have  its  special 
part  to  play  in  the  world.” 

Until  we  have  studied,  this  plan  of  Nature,  and  have 
seen  how  specially  he  is  adapted  for  his  life’s  work,  we 
can’t  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  Kingfisher  ( Ceryle 
alcyon) . You  might  not  notice  how  closely  the  color  of 
his  coat  matches  the  water  until  you  look  at  him  from 
above  with  the  blue  water  behind  him. 

A kingfisher  cannot  be  high  above  his  reptile  ances- 
tors. Young  kingfishers  are  raised  in  such  a dark,  damp 
place  you  might  think,  at  first  sight,  that  all  of  them  would 
die  of  consumption.  They  never  get  even  a glint  of  sun- 
shine till  they  are  old  enough  to  climb  out  of  the  cave 
and  take  flight.  Think  of  living  in  a deep  well  till  you 

i39 


1 40 


American  Birds 


are  grown ! But  maybe  Nature  set  the  kingfisher  to  live 
in  a dark  hole  in  order  to  adapt  him  better  for  his  work. 

A young  kingfisher  seems  to  grow  like  a potato  in  a 
cellar,  all  the  growth  going  to  the  end  nearer  the  light. 
He  sits  looking  out  toward  the  door  and,  of  course,  his 
face  naturally  all  goes  to  nose.  Everything  is  forfeited 
to  furnish  him  with  a big  head,  a spear-pointed  bill,  and 
a pair  of  strong  wings  to  give  this  arrow-shaped  bird  a 
good  start  when  he  dives  for  fish.  Of  course,  he  seems  top- 
heavy  in  appearance.  His  tiny  feet  are  deformed  and 
hardly  large  enough  to  support  him.  I am  sure  a king- 
fisher would  not  pretend  to  walk,  but  he  is  built  for  a pro- 
fessional fisher  and  is  a success  at  the  business. 

If  a kingfisher  can  find  a bank  he  always  has  some 
advantage  over  other  birds,  because  he  can  burrow  in 
far  enough  to  get  out  of  reach.  For  several  years  we 
have  watched  a pair  of  these  birds  that  nested  along  the 
river  bank  within  the  city  limits.  One  day  we  paddled 
across  to  the  east  side  above  the  mill.  The  bank  ran 
abruptly  up  and  was  well  wooded.  Beyond  this  was  a 
short,  sandy  beach  where  we  used  to  swim,  and  where  a 
cool  spring  of  water  gushed  out  of  the  rocks  just  above 
the  river.  Above  was  a small  clay  bank  where  the  king- 
fishers lived.  I saw  one  enter  the  hole  and  I climbed  up 
just  below  the  entrance.  I pounded  with  a stick  to  get 
him  out  so  as  to  snap  his  picture  as  he  left  the  nest.  But 
he  was  like  a baron  in  his  castle.  He  knew  I couldn’t 
drive  him  out.  Then  I sat  down  for  fifteen  minutes  until 
his  mate  returned.  When  she  arrived  with  a loud  clat- 
tering cry,  out  he  came  and  lit  on  a stump  while  she 
entered. 


Kingfishers  141 

Not  long  after  that  a railroad  company  bought  the 
franchise  along  the  water  front,  started  a big  digging  ma- 
chine, set  scrapers  to  work,  slashed  the  scenery  right  and 
left  and  dropped  it  into  the  river.  It  spoded  the  whole 
place  for  me,  but  do  you  think  the  railway  syndicate  drove 
out  the  kingfisher?  Not  much.  No  sooner  had  the  big 
digger  moved  on  than  he  plugged  another  hole  in  the  new 
bank.  The  old  roots  and  the  dead  tree  where  he  used 
to  sit  were  gone,  but  he  put  on  civilization  and  set  himself 
on  a wire  where  thousands  of  volts  of  invisible  power 
were  passing  beneath  his  clutched  feet.  He  perched  on 
the  trolley  pole,  and  rattled  his  call  as  if  it  were  put  there 
for  his  convenience.  Indeed  it  seemed  so,  for  it  was 
squarely  over  the  water’s  edge  where  he  could  watch  the 
swimming  minnows  beneath. 

I have  often  watched  the  kingfisher  along  the  river. 
At  times  he  would  occupy  an  old  willow  on  the  bank, 
and  he  would  sit  there  for  half  an  hour  at  a time,  occasion- 
ally turning  his  head  and  watching  the  water  carefully. 
I seldom  saw  him  catch  anything  from  that  place;  I think 
he  used  it  more  as  a lounging  tree.  He  would  often  come 
flying  down  the  river  about  noontime,  with  his  head  high 
in  the  air,  and,  like  the  boat  coming  in  at  the  wharf,  he 
always  sounded  his  rattle  before  landing. 

This  old  “ king  ” had  several  favorite  perches  for  a 
mile  along  the  river.  He  was  watchful  and  shy,  and  I think 
rather  quarrelsome.  Never  but  once  did  I see  another 
kingfisher  about,  and  that  was  one  day  when  I heard  a 
loud  rattling,  and  looking  down  the  river  I saw  two  king- 
fishers light  in  the  dead  alder,  both  very  much  excited. 
They  kept  up  a clattering  fuss  for  a few  moments,  as  one 


142 


American  Birds 


person  will  argue  with  another,  then  one  darted  at  the 
other,  and  away  they  went  dodging  and  turning  as  far 
as  I could  see.  I think  it  was  a fight  as  to  the  ownership 
of  the  property  along  the  river,  for  the  riparian  rights 
seemed  to  belong  to  this  one  bird  and  all  others  were  ex- 
cluded. 

It  is  always  exciting  to  me  to  watch  these  birds  catch 
fish.  I enjoy  it  as  much  as  pulling  them  out  myself. 
I was  sitting  on  the  bank  one  day  when  my  old  king 
came  rattling  down  the  river  in  swift,  straight  flight, 
and  swerving  up,  caught  himself  in  mid-air  and  came  to 
a stop  about  fifteen  feet  above  the  water.  What  an  eye 
he  must  have  to  see  a fish  under  the  surface  when  going 
at  such  a pace!  He  fluttered  for  a moment  as  a sparrow 
hawk  does  above  his  prey,  and  dropped  arrowlike,  com- 
pletely disappearing  beneath  the  surface.  The  next  instant 
he  was  in  the  air  again  with  a crawfish.  He  wasn’t  wet 
a bit,  for  his  clothes  were  water-tight;  the  water  ran 
off  his  satiny  plumage  as  if  his  coat  were  thoroughly 
oiled. 

While  the  kingfisher  catches  many  minnows  he  does 
not  live  on  these  alone.  He  often  lives  on  different  kinds 
of  insects  and  shell-fish.  Along  some  streams  he  lives 
mostly  on  frogs,  lizards,  and  beetles.  In  the  southern 
states,  where  the  streams  are  few  and  run  dry  in  summer, 
this  bird  takes  to  a fare  of  grasshoppers  and  mice.  Think 
of  a kingfisher  catching  mice!  A kingfisher  adapts  him- 
self to  circumstances  just  as  a flicker  will  dig  a home  in 
a clay  bank,  a telegraph  pole,  or  a church  steeple  when  the 
trees  are  all  cut  down. 

Where  I live,  the  food  of  the  kingfisher  consists  largely 


Kingfishers  143 

of  crawfish  that  are  common  along  the  streams.  He  pulls 
the  fish  apart  and  swallows  shell  and  all;  then  the  indi- 
gestible parts  are  vomited  up  later,  and,  strange  to  say, 
these  cast-off  bones,  scales,  and  shells  are  used  for  the 
lining  of  the  nest.  I do  not  know  just  why  a kingfisher 
likes  to  carpet  his  house  with  such  a rough  floor,  unless 
he  wants  to  adorn  his  home  with  the  trophies  of  his  many 
hunts.  He  may  be  too  lazy  to  carry  in  anything  else. 

Some  people  advocate  shooting  the  kingfisher  at  every 
opportunity,  and,  in  some  places,  men  have  made  laws  to 
exterminate  him,  claiming  that  he  destroys  too  many  young 
trout.  But  the  kingfisher  eats  very  few  trout  compar- 
atively. He  lives  largely  on  the  kinds  of  fish  that  are  of 
little  or  no  value  to  man.  What  if  he  does  catch  an  occa- 
sional trout  to  eat?  Is  man  the  proper  defender  of  the 
trout?  Man  who  never  destroys!  The  kingfisher  was 
here  long  before  man  came;  he  must  have  some  rights,  at 
least  the  right  to  live  a secluded  life  along  the  waterways 
where  there  are  no  trout. 

The  kingfisher  is  not  a social  bird  like  the  chippy  and 
chickadee,  and  I have  never  found  but  one  pair  about  a cer- 
tain place.  He  is  a solitary  fisher  and  an  outcast  in  bird 
society.  He  seems  to  think  that  a companion  would  talk 
and  scare  the  fish,  or  else  he  is  too  much  of  a hermit  to 
enjoy  the  friendship  of  others.  But  it  would  be  a poor 
world  if  all  the  birds  were  alike.  I wouldn’t  want  a field 
without  a meadow  lark,  even  if  it  did  raise  a good  crop 
of  hay.  It  would  be  a desolate  patch  of  winter  woods 
with  no  chickadee.  It  would  be  a barren  orchard  without 
a robin  or  chippy,  even  if  it  did  bear  apples.  I should 
lose  much  of  my  interest  and  pleasure  in  the  river  if 


144 


American  Birds 


the  kingfisher  were  not  there,  for,  to  my  mind,  he  helps 
to  make  the  place  what  it  is. 

The  kingfisher  is  a fellow  of  ways  and  means.  I used 
to  think  he  always  took  a site  along  the  river  for  a home, 
but  this  is  not  so.  Perhaps  a good  nesting  site  at  the  river 
side  is  not  always  to  be  had.  Three  years  ago  I found  a 
kingfisher  living  in  a bank  on  the  heights  back  of  the  city. 
This  was  a good  mile  from  his  place  of  business,  a kind 
of  suburban  home  where  he  could  enjoy  the  fly  after  fish- 
ing along  the  river.  I often  saw  him  go  back  and  forth, 
and  heard  his  rattle  high  above  the  housetops  of  the 
crowded  city.  It  seemed  to  me  the  difficult  problem  of 
living  so  far  from  the  river  would  have  to  be  settled  when 
the  youngsters  were  full-grown.  How  could  the  parents 
get  them  clear  across  the  city  to  the  river  hunting-grounds? 
By  watching,  I found  that  young  kingfishers  do  not  leave 
their  nests  until  they  are  fully  fledged  and  can  fly  quite  a 
long  distance.  As  near  as  I could  judge  the  tousled-headed 
youngsters  sailed  almost  the  entire  distance,  from  the  high 
position  on  the  heights  to  the  river,  in  one  try. 

I was  acquainted  with  another  pair  of  kings  that  used 
to  keep  watch  for  fish  about  Ladd’s  pond.  They  had  an 
outlook  on  a dead  limb  over  the  water  that  was  usually 
held  by  one  of  the  birds.  The  first  year  I found  this  pair 
I was  especially  interested.  The  male  bird  caught  my 
attention  because  I could  see  that  something  was  the  matter 
with  his  bill.  I saw  him  dive,  and  at  first  I thought  he 
caught  a fish,  for  his  mouth  was  open,  but  I watched  him 
again  and  each  time  he  seemed  to  miss,  but  his  mouth  was 
always  open. 

This  pair  of  kingfishers  dug  a nest  in  the  bank  of 


Kingfishers  145 

an  old  railroad  cut  about  half  a mile  away.  I found  it 
by  watching  them  take  the  overland  route  from  the  pond 
after  fishing  hours.  Near  the  entrance  I saw  two  other 
places  where  they  had  begun  to  dig,  but  it  seemed  they 
had  struck  hard  spots  and  had  tried  again  till  they  got 
a place  that  was  soft  and  sandy.  They  chiselled  the  dirt 
out  with  their  bills,  and  pushed  it  along  with  their  tiny 
feet.  As  near  as  I could  estimate,  it  took  them  a week 
and  a half  to  finish  the  burrow.  The  hallway  sloped 
slightly  up  and  ran  back  four  feet,  where  it  ended  in  a 
little  dome-shaped  room.  From  the  door  into  the  nest 
were  two  little  tracks,  worn  by  the  feet  of  the  birds  as 
they  went  in  and  out.  The  female  generally  does  most 
of  the  setting,  while  the  male  returns  occasionally  and 
supplies  her  with  food.  But  in  this  family  I think  the 
duties  were  somewhat  reversed,  for  the  male  seemed  unable 
to  do  his  part  of  the  food  gathering. 

I have  often  watched  kingfishers  plunge  into  the  pools 
and  shallows  for  fish,  and  have  wondered  if  they  sometimes 
did  not  miscalculate  in  their  hasty,  headlong  dives.  The 
more  I saw  of  the  old  king  about  the  pond  the  more  I 
thought  this  was  true.  So  one  day  we  went  over  to  the 
nest,  which  was  only  about  two  feet  below  the  top  of  the 
bank,  and  measured  back  to  where  we  thought  the  home 
was  and  dug  straight  down  to  the  nest.  Both  birds  were 
at  home.  We  found  the  male  bird  had  an  injured  bill,  as 
we  had  thought.  The  upper  mandible  of  the  bill  had 
apparently  been  broken  some  time  before  and  was  par- 
tially healed,  but  was  shorter  than  the  lower  one.  From 
the  injured  place  the  outer  end  of  the  beak  bent  up  some- 
what so  the  bird  could  not  close  its  mouth  except  at  the 


146 


American  Birds 


base.  He  could  hardly  hold  a fish  if  he  caught  one,  and 
instead  of  fishing  for  a living  I think  he  was  doing  the 
woman’s  work  at  home  and  his  wife  was  catching  fish. 
There  were  six  pure  white  eggs,  and  after  taking  a picture 
of  the  injured  bird  we  carefully  closed  the  nest  again. 

We  were  afraid  the  birds  would  desert  the  nest,  but 
they  didn’t.  The  male  continued  the  incubating,  and  it 
was  sixteen  or  seventeen  days  from  the  time  the  eggs  were 
laid  till  they  were  hatched.  The  young  were  blind,  naked, 
and  helpless.  I knew  just  as  well  when  the  young  kings 
were  born  as  if  I had  crawled  back  through  the  under- 
ground passage  for  four  feet  and  struck  a match  to  look. 
Both  birds  took  to  fishing,  and  they  kept  the  air-line  trail 
hot  between  the  pond  and  the  bank. 

It  took  almost  four  weeks  of  feeding  and  nourishing 
before  the  young  kingfishers  were  able  to  leave  the  hole 
in  the  bank.  We  watched  the  nest  pretty  closely  and 
were  present  when  they  came  out.  Not  one  of  the  young- 
sters was  strong  on  the  wing,  and  we  had  our  cameras 
ready.  That  hole  in  the  bank  surely  held  one  of  the 
wildest-eyed  feathery  tribes  I ever  saw.  We  tried  for  a 
whole  day  and  finally  got  six  of  the  frowzy-headed  fishers 
in  a pose. 

In  due  time  all  the  family  of  young  kings  made  their 
way  to  the  pond,  where  they  perched  on  the  projecting 
snags  over  the  water.  They  were  not  experts  on  the  wing, 
nor  could  they  spear  a fish,  but  they  were  not  too  old  to 
learn.  It  can’t  be  an  easy  thing  for  a bird  to  hit  a fish 
when  it  is  swimming  under  water,  not  at  least  when  the 
water  is  rough,  or  when  the  fisher  does  not  know,  by 
a long  diving  experience,  how  the  light  is  reflected. 


Kingfishers  147 

The  parents  fed  the  young  for  a time  till  they  knew 
how  to  care  for  themselves.  As  soon  as  they  developed 
strength  and  experience  the  old  birds  led  them  to  the  river 
about  a mile  distant,  where  they  broke  a way  for  them- 
selves in  the  great  world  of  bird  life. 

I never  knew  just  what  became  of  the  father  with 
the  broken  bill.  He  may  have  starved  to  death  the  fol- 
lowing winter,  or  the  injured  part  of  his  bill  may  have 
been  gradually  replaced  by  a new  growth.  The  next  year 
I saw  two  kingfishers  about  the  same  locality,  but  neither 
had  a broken  bill. 


THE  KINGFISHER  FAMILY 

The  Kingfisher  is  a bird  easily  recognized  because  it  is  common 
everywhere  along  streams.  It  is  about  a foot  in  length,  has  a big  crested 
head  and  a long  beak.  It  lives  on  fish,  plunging  headlong  in  the  water 
to  catch  its  meal. 

Belted  Kingfisher  ( Ceryle  alcyon ):  Male,  crest  and  upper  parts, 
bluish-gray;  bill,  long  and  sharp;  under  parts  and  collar,  white,  with 
blue-gray  belt  across  breast.  Female,  like  male,  but  breast-band  and 
sides  of  belly  tinged  with  red-brown.  Common  throughout  the  United 
States,  arriving  from  the  South  in  March.  Nest  in  a hole  in  a bank. 
Eggs,  six  to  eight,  pure  white. 


SPARROW  ROW 


XIV 


SPARROW  ROW 

THE  trail  that  led  over  to  Cornell  Canyon  started 
right  up  a small  ravine  from  the  city  street.  The 
street  ended  at  the  abrupt  slope  that  cut  steeply  up  the 
gulch.  Below  was  the  paved  sidewalk,  above  a jungle  of 
rosebrier,  blackberry,  and  young  firs.  Through  and  above 
this  I climbed  to  the  abandoned  wood  road  that  wound 
up  the  hillside.  In  the  street  below  the  English  Spar- 
rows ( Passer  domesticus ) live,  above,  on  the  slope,  the 
Song  ( Melospiza  melodia  morphna ) and  White-crowned 
Sparrows  ( Zonotricliia  leucophrys  nuttalli)  nest.  The 
Englishers  dwell  at  the  lower  end  of  the  row  in  what  I 
call  the  tenement  quarter;  the  songs  and  white-crowns  live 
above  in  a more  restricted  district.  I can  be  in  the  city 
with  the  noise  and  the  city  manners  of  the  street  sparrows, 
or  in  a few  seconds  I can  be  in  the  deep  woods  with  the 
song  sparrow. 

What  a contrast,  the  song  sparrow  and  the  Englisher ! 
The  song  sparrow  is  a bird  of  character,  the  other  is  a 
street  gamin.  Our  native  songster  is  not  quarrelsome.  He 
has  gentle  dignity,  while  this  imported  son  of  England  is 
bold  and  brawling.  The  full,  rich  notes  that  ring  from  the 
hillside  are  drowned  in  the  discordant  chirps  about  the 
sidewalk  and  street. 

The  song  sparrow  is  one  of  the  most  constant  sing- 

151 


1 52 


American  Birds 


ers  throughout  our  land.  Wherever  birds  live,  there  we 
may  find  him,  whether  in  the  mountains  or  along  the  riv- 
ers, whether  along  the  sea-shore  or  on  the  dry,  chaparral- 
covered  deserts.  He  is  a bird  with  a name  that  fits,  and 
he  lives  in  every  state  of  the  Union.  But  he  has  many 
different  variations  in  name,  owing  to  some  little  differ- 
ence in  the  color  of  his  coat,  due  perhaps  to  the  place  where 
he  lives. 

Early  in  the  season  I watched  a pair  of  song  sparrows 
at  work.  They  dug  out  a hollow  in  the  centre  of  a thick 
tussock  of  grass.  They  lined  it  with  a bed  of  dry  leaves 
and  twined  the  grass  stems  around  and  around,  the  mother 
weaving  them  in  and  shaping  the  cup  with  her  breast. 

The  male  sparrow  wore  a plain  brown-colored  coat, 
and  had  a black  spot  hung  right  in  the  centre  of  his  breast 
as  a mark  of  identity.  But  clothes  do  not  make  the  bird. 
He  had  a repertoire  of  song  rolled  up  in  his  tiny  brain 
that  would  win  the  affection  of  any  audience. 

The  song  sparrow  is  an  artist,  and  he  loves  his  art. 
Ele  sings  for  the  sake  of  the  music.  The  hillside  is  his 
permanent  home,  for  I have  seen  him  there  winter  as 
well  as  summer.  He  stays  and  sings  when  the  snows  cover 
the  hills.  After  a night  of  drenching  March  rain  he 
hops  out  from  under  a brush  heap  and  sets  the  woods 
atune  for  the  coming  of  spring.  Then  a little  later  he 
breaks  into  an  ecstasy,  and  almost  loses  himself  in  the  end- 
less changes  of  his  song.  While  house  building,  and  after 
the  mother  has  cradled  her  four  spotted  eggs,  the  male 
always  shows  the  quality  of  his  music.  After  the  family 
cares  of  the  summer  and  when  the  sun  makes  him  moult, 
he  chirps  more  than  he  sings,  but  when  the  October  frosts 


1 53 


Sparrow  Row 

nip  the  leaves  and  the  wind  sends  them  scurrying  ground- 
ward,  and  his  coat  changes,  the  song  sparrow  sits  in  the 
leafless  tops  and  still  sings  of  the  beauties  that  haunt  his 
memory. 

The  white-crowned  sparrow  has  not  the  variation  in 
his  singing  that  the  song  sparrow  has.  He  has  one  theme, 
and  that  he  has  sung  till  perfection  has  been  reached.  I 
never  tire  of  the  song,  because  it  always  seems  to  have 
some  new  association  or  suggestion.  I remember  it  in 
my  boyhood  days,  when  the  white-crowns  used  to  come 
trooping  in  with  anxious  chirps  to  roost  in  the  thick  growth 
of  the  eucalyptus  in  front  of  the  house.  Before  dark  they 
would  swing  on  the  higher  branches  and  sing  of  the 
Quaker  poet,  “Oh!  De-e-ar!  Whit-ti-er!  Whit-ti-er!” 
And  then  in  the  darkening  moments  a little  later  would 
come  the  sad  refrain,  “ Oh!  De-e-ar!  De-e-ar!  ” And 
as  I lay  by  the  open  window  sometimes  in  the  dreamy 
hours  of  the  night  I heard  the  song  repeated. 

The  white-crowns  liked  the  hillside  because  they  could 
drop  down  the  slope  to  the  back  yard  of  a friend  that 
kept  a bath  basin  of  running  water  and  a free  lunch  of 
crumbs  and  seeds.  They  came  and  ate  all  they  wanted  in 
the  early  spring,  then  later  on,  instead  of  eating  the  food, 
they  began  to  carry  it  away.  This  looked  suspicious,  so 
I followed  them  up  the  hill  and  found  four  little  spar- 
rows in  a grass  nest  on  the  sloping  bank  under  a small 
dogwood. 

In  order  to  get  some  pictures  of  the  sparrows,  we  had 
focused  our  camera  on  the  ground  where  the  crumbs  were 
placed  and  snapped  the  birds  as  they  came  to  feed.  Early 
in  the  springtime  the  sparrows  were  not  wild,  and  we  got 


1 54 


American  Birds 


a number  of  good  photographs,  but  later,  when  the  young 
were  hatched  and  we  tried  to  get  pictures  at  the  nest,  the 
birds  resented  such  interference.  We  tried  for  several  days 
with  the  camera  at  the  nest,  but  the  birds  would  not  go 
near  it  when  we  were  there.  Then  we  focused  on  the 
top  of  the  dogwood  where  the  sparrows  were  accustomed 
to  light,  and  covering  the  camera  with  limbs  and  leaves 
we  got  some  pictures. 

Once  or  twice  I saw  a dangerous-looking  cat  in  the 
next  yard  from  the  sparrows’  lunch-table.  We  have  tried 
every  lawful  way  of  getting  rid  of  stray  cats,  for  they  are 
the  most  persistent  enemies  the  birds  have.  Some  one  has 
estimated  that  on  an  average  a stray  cat  will  kill  fifty 
songsters  a year.  Of  course,  certain  cats  will  kill  many 
more  than  this.  Most  states  have  laws  that  prevent  man 
from  killing  the  birds.  A man  may  be  fined  for  killing 
a bird,  but  he  may  keep  a cat  that  kills  a hundred.  Why 
can’t  the  owners  of  cats  see  that  they  are  well  supplied 
with  food,  so  that  they  do  not  have  to  hunt  birds  for  a 
living?  Why  can’t  people  who  own  cats  keep  them  at 
home  or  make  some  effort  to  teach  them  to  let  birds  alone  ? 

The  next  day  when  we  scattered  crumbs  for  the  spar- 
rows we  found  several  feathers  that  looked  as  if  they 
were  from  the  tail  or  wing  of  one  of  our  birds,  and  when 
neither  of  the  white-crowns  appeared  the  indications 
looked  bad.  If  the  old  cat  had  killed  the  mother,  the 
young  might  be  starving. 

I hurried  up  the  hill  to  look  after  the  orphans.  There 
was  not  a sparrow  in  sight.  When  I climbed  up  to  the 
dogwood  I pushed  the  ferns  aside,  and  four  gaping 
mouths  were  stretched  up  to  me.  It  looked  as  if  I were 


1 55 


Sparrow  Row 

a long  lost  relative  arriving  in  the  nick  of  time  to  save 
a hungry  family  from  starvation.  Mercy ! What  could 
I do  with  such  a family  on  my  hands?  A big,  bungling 
man  with  such  tiny  nestlings  to  feed ! I sat  down  to  think 
it  over,  but  before  I had  been  there  a minute  here  came 
the  father  white-crown,  hopping  from  limb  to  limb,  and 
chirping  excitedly.  To  my  astonishment,  he  was  followed 
by  the  mother.  Not  much,  the  cat  had  not  eaten  her ! 
She  was  well  and  happy,  but  absolutely  tailless.  “ He 
didn’t  catch  me.  Here  I am,”  she  seemed  to  say,  as  she 
perched  in  the  top  of  the  dogwood  over  my  head.  She 
chirped,  and  at  every  chirp  she  jerked  to  throw  up  her 
tail  in  emphasis,  but  she  couldn’t  emphasize  in  her  old 
way.  Whereas  yesterday  she  was  graceful  and  could  talk 
with  an  air  of  dignity,  now  she  had  lost  balance,  and  was 
ridiculous  because  she  could  hardly  poise  on  a limb. 

But  now  the  tailless  bird  had  more  interest  for  us  than 
she  had  before.  We  wanted  to  watch  her  and  picture 
her,  so  we  focused  the  camera  on  the  tree-top  and  hid 
until  we  could  get  the  sparrows  into  position. 

If  one  thinks  the  tail  of  a bird  is  not  an  important 
factor  in  flight,  he  should  have  seen  that  mother  sparrow 
try  to  catch  a fly  on  the  wing.  Several  times  I saw  her 
dart  out  from  the  tree  in  pursuit  of  an  insect  that  flew 
past.  Almost  every  time  she  missed  at  the  first  strike,  and 
then  I could  see  that  she  sorely  felt  the  loss  of  her  long, 
guiding  feathers.  She  scrambled  about  in  mid-air  in  her 
efforts  to  turn  abruptly  and  start  off  in  a new  direction. 
She  was  always  successful  in  the  end,  although  at  one 
time  I saw  her  make  five  tries  before  she  landed  a moth. 
At  another  time  she  darted  with  such  vigor  that  she 


American  Birds 


156 

almost  turned  a complete  somersault  before  she  regained 
her  equilibrium. 

The  invasion  of  the  Englisher  in  the  bird  world  is  a 
tremendous  problem  for  our  native  songsters.  It  is  no 
negro  problem  of  the  South  for  them,  for  education  is  out 
of  the  question,  and  exportation  is  impossible.  This  for- 
eign sparrow  may  be  all  right  in  a narrow-streeted  city 
where  other  birds  do  not  live,  but  he  has  no  place  in  a 
city  with  tree-lined  streets  and  gardens  and  parks,  for  our 
native  songsters  are  superior  in  every  way  to  the  imported 
street  gamin. 

The  Englisher  is  the  greatest  bird  colonizer  I know. 
In  the  year  of  1887  there  was  not  a single  one  about  the 
city  where  I live.  But  in  the  spring  of  1889  I found  the 
first  pair  had  taken  up  a residence  about  an  old  ivy-covered 
house.  They  had  likely  come  in  during  the  winter  over 
the  usual  freight-car  route.  It  is  well  known  that  the 
spread  of  these  birds  is  often  due  to  the  railroads,  for  this 
medium  will  populate  any  community.  In  cities  where 
these  pests  thrive  they  are  generally  found  about  depots 
and  warehouses,  and  in  winter  the  sparrow  asks  for  no 
better  home  than  an  empty  freight-car,  especially  if  the 
floor  is  covered  with  loose  grain.  When  the  doors  of  the 
freight-cars  are  locked,  the  sparrows  are  shut  in  and  car- 
ried off,  tramplike,  to  other  places.  By  this  civilized 
mode  of  travel  this  bird  has  been  carried  from  point  to 
point,  and  it  is  readily  at  home  wherever  it  lands. 

I have  watched  the  population  of  our  city  grow,  until 
now  there  is  hardly  a street  that  isn’t  overcrowded  from 
the  river  to  the  hills.  The  sparrows  have  long  since  spread 
into  the  surrounding  towns,  and  some  day  I suppose  they 


Sparrow  Row  157 

will  be  in  dominant  possession  of  the  country  as  well  as 
the  city.  Some  people  advocate  a wholesale  slaughter, 
but  others  always  object,  for  they  still  fall  back  to  the  fact 
that  he  is  a bird. 

For  several  years  I had  a bird-house  that  was  rented 
each  summer  by  the  bluebirds.  Then  one  spring,  when 
they  returned  from  the  South,  they  found  a pair  of  spar- 
rows in  possession.  After  that  I was  never  able  to  get  the 
bluebird  tenants  to  return,  although  I pitched  the  spar- 
rows into  the  street  and  cleaned  the  house  thoroughly. 
For  every  sparrow  I choked  and  ejected  another  occupant 
came  to  take  possession,  till  at  last  I used  the  box  for 
kindling.  I had  the  same  difficulty  with  some  swallow 
tenants.  The  bluebird,  the  white-breasted  swallow,  and 
Parkman  wren  are  all  common  residents  about  our  city, 
and  each  of  these  birds  likes  to  take  up  a homestead  in  a 
good,  sheltered  bird-box.  From  my  own  standpoint,  my 
property  increases  in  value  whenever  one  of  these  song- 
sters takes  up  a residence  with  me.  On  the  other  hand, 
my  real  estate  drops  every  time  an  English  sparrow  moves 
in,  because  no  self-respecting  feathered  native  can  dwell 
in  the  same  neighborhood. 

No  one  can  dispute  the  sparrow’s  success  as  a family 
man.  He  works  overtime  to  people  the  earth.  The  stork 
of  the  sparrow  species  is  a busy  individual  for  almost  half 
of  every  year.  Then,  in  addition,  the  English  sparrow 
has  the  advantage  over  the  songsters  that  nest  in  the  woods 
and  fields,  for  they  have  so  many  natural  enemies,  such 
as  hawks,  owls,  animals,  and  snakes.  The  Englisher  lives 
about  the  crowded  city,  where  he  has  little  to  fear,  because 
men  are  unobserving  and  rarely  interfere. 


American  Birds 


i58 

When  it  comes  to  housekeeping,  I give  the  Englisher 
credit  for  wanting  something  new  and  up-to-date.  He 
loves  the  crosspiece  in  the  protected  top  of  an  electric  arc 
lamp.  There  he  gets  free  light  and  heat.  For  second 
choice,  he  takes  a bird-box  or  protected  nook  about  a 
building.  If  necessary,  he  takes  to  a tree,  but  he  does  not 
like  this,  for  nest  building  in  a tree  is  more  difficult.  If 
hard  pushed,  he  will  even  take  a rain  spout  or  a gutter 
along  the  eaves  of  the  house.  You  can’t  “ stump  ” a spar- 
row for  a nesting  site. 

Down  near  the  lower  end  of  sparrow  row  some  hor- 
nets built  a nest  up  under  the  projecting  eaves  of  the  front 
porch  of  a cottage,  just  beside  the  bracket.  I can  under- 
stand how  a pair  of  sparrows  will  fight  for  a bird-box  and 
drive  other  birds  away,  but  I never  dreamed  they  would 
be  envious  of  the  hornets.  But  a sparrow  must  have  a 
place  to  nest.  Whether  the  hornets  left  voluntarily  or 
with  the  aid  of  the  sparrows  I do  not  know,  but  the  next 
time  I passed  I found  the  birds  in  possession — actually 
making  a home  in  a hornet’s  nest.  They  had  gone  in 
through  the  bracket  and  pulled  out  a large  part  of  the 
comb,  and  were  replacing  it  with  grass  and  feathers. 

Think  of  raising  a family  of  birds  in  a hornet’s  nest 
— not  one,  but  several  families!  When  the  young  spar- 
rows grew  older,  I looked  to  see  the  bottom  fall  out  and 
drop  the  nestful  of  little  brats  to  the  porch,  but  it  didn’t. 
The  hornet’s  nest  remained  as  strong  as  if  it  had  been 
made  for  sparrows.  And  the  sparrows  liked  it  immense- 
ly; it  was  a novelty,  and  not  another  pair  around  had  a 
home  like  theirs. 

The  cock-sparrow  was  proud  of  his  home.  He  helped 


159 


Sparrow  Row 

feed  the  children,  but  not  because  he  liked  it.  I could  see 
it  was  not  in  a cock-sparrow  to  nurse  children.  He  liked 
fighting  better,  and  between  meals,  even  if  he  only  had  a 
moment  to  spare,  he  would  spend  it  in  fighting  with  the 
neighbors.  He  would  drop  down  suddenly  in  the  street 
in  the  midst  of  a crowd  of  sparrows  and  pitch  into  the 
nearest  by  jerking  at  a tail  or  wing  feather.  For  a mo- 
ment the  dust  and  feathers  would  fly,  and  the  victor  would 
sputter  around  with  his  wings  drooping  and  his  tail  up. 
Then  away  he  would  go,  fluttering  off,  foraging  for  fruit 
and  bugs.  He  returned,  dusty  and  dirty,  every  few  min- 
utes with  morsels  of  food. 

It  is  always  a wonder  to  me  that  more  of  these  street 
sparrows  are  not  killed  as  they  hop  and  flutter  about  the 
hoofs  of  the  horses  and  in  front  of  the  cars.  Half  the 
time  they  seem  to  see  how  close  they  can  miss  getting 
hit,  and  off  they  flutter  in  sidelong  flight,  as  if  hardly  able 
to  rise.  But  the  sparrow  knows  the  ways  of  the  city  like 
a newsboy,  and  he  is  safer  down  amid  the  clatter  of  the 
wheels  than  his  cousins  are  in  the  woods  and  fields. 

THE  SPARROW  AND  FINCH  FAMILY 

The  Fringillidse,  or  Finch  and  Sparrow  family  is  our  largest  family 
of  birds.  As  a rule,  they  are  plainly  dressed  in  dull  colors,  and  sing 
well.  The  average  length  is  six  or  seven  inches.  This  class  of  birds  is 
known  as  seed-eaters  and  can  be  recognized  by  their  stout  conical  bills, 
but  they  also  live  largely  on  cutworms,  caterpillars,  and  other  insects. 
The  sexes  are  generally  alike.  With  the  English  sparrow  in  mind  as 
a type,  other  members  of  the  family  should  be  readily  recognized. 

English  Sparrow  ( Passer  domesticus),  House  Sparrow,  Street  Gamin, 
Tramp:  Male,  upper  parts  ashy-gray,  streaked  with  black  and  brown; 
black  patch  about  eyes  and  on  throat,  rest  of  under  parts  grayish;  red- 


American  Birds 


i 60 

brown  patch  behind  eye;  wing  with  brown  patch  and  white  wing-bars. 
Female,  grayish-brown  above  and  gray  beneath.  This  bird  was  brought 
to  this  country  from  England.  It  has  spread  all  over  the  United  States 
where  it  is  a persistent  resident  of  towns  and  cities. 

Song  Sparrow  ( Melos  piza  melodia ):  A familiar  and  favorite  bird 
throughout  North  America.  Its  dress  has  been  modified  slightly  by  cli- 
matic influences  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  In  the  Northwest, 
where  rain  is  plentiful  and  vegetation  is  dense,  his  coat  is  sable-brown; 
on  the  deserts,  his  dress  is  a pale,  sandy  color  to  match  the  ground. 
But  whatever  the  shade  of  his  dress,  he  is  always  the  same  in  every  state 
in  the  Union.  Male  and  female,  streaked  above  and  below;  the  upper 
parts  are  brown-gray  and  olive;  gray  stripe  over  the  eye;  breast  is  white, 
streaked  with  dark  brown  and  a larger  spot  on  the  chest.  Sometimes 
the  song  sparrow  stays  all  winter;  others  return  from  the  South  in  April 
and  stay  till  November.  Nest  on  the  ground  or  in  a low  bush.  Eggs, 
four,  grayish-white,  spotted  and  clouded  with  brown  and  lavender. 

Chipping  Sparrow  ( Spizella  socialis).  Chippy,  Hair-bird:  Male  and 
female,  cap  red-brown;  brown  stripe  through  the  eye  and  gray  stripe 
above;  back  streaked  brown  and  gray;  breast  light  gray. 

White-crowned  Sparrow  (Z onotnchia  leucopbrys ):  Male  and  female, 
white  crown  set  between  two  black  stripes  with  white  stripe  running 
back  from  eye;  cheeks,  throat  and  back  of  neck  gray;  back,  general  ashy 
color,  streaked  with  brown;  below,  light  gray. 

White-throated  Sparrow,  similar  to  above,  but  with  yellow  spot  in 
front  of  eye,  and  white  throat.  Both  are  handsome  birds  and  good 
singers. 


TWO  STUDIES  IN  BLUE 


XV 


TWO  STUDIES  IN  BLUE 

BLUE  is  not  a common  color  among  our  birds.  There 
are  many  more  clad  in  neutral  tints  of  brown  and 
gray  than  in  bright  blue.  But  a list  of  birds  that  every 
one  should  know  could  not  be  complete  without  our  two 
commonest  studies  in  blue,  the  Bluebird  ( Sialia  sialis ) and 
the  Blue  Jay  ( Cyanocitta  cristata) . In  all  our  woods, 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  one  may  find  these  two, 
one  gentle  and  friendly,  the  other  bold,  boisterous,  and 
untrustful. 

A small  flock  of  jays  are  a noisy  pack  in  the  autumn. 
They  squawk  through  the  woods  as  if  they  want  every- 
body to  know  just  where  they  are,  but  in  the  spring, 
after  they  have  paired  and  are  nesting,  they  suddenly  go 
speechless,  as  if  they  can’t  trust  themselves  to  talk  out 
loud.  And,  indeed,  they  can’t  when  anywhere  about  the 
nest.  They  talk  in  whispers,  and  flit  as  silently  as  shad- 
ows through  the  trees. 

In  the  early  spring  I heard  the  jays  squawking  about 
the  maples  on  the  hill,  but  I knew  they  would  not  nest 
there ; that  was  only  a playground.  A quarter  of  a mile 
below  this  was  a thick  clump  of  fir  saplings.  They  would 
take  this  thicket  for  a home.  The  last  week  in  May  I 
searched  through  this  and  found  the  nest  eight  feet  from 
the  ground  among  the  close  limbs. 

163 


American  Birds 


164 

Early  in  the  season  these  same  birds  were  blustering, 
bragging,  and  full  of  noise.  When  I found  the  nest  one 
of  the  birds  was  at  home.  She  didn’t  move  till  I shook 
the  tree;  then  she  slid  off  silently  and  went  for  her  mate. 
In  another  minute  they  were  both  there,  not  threatening 
and  swearing,  as  I had  expected.  It  was  pitiful  to  see 
how  meek  and  confiding  they  had  become.  There  was 
not  a single  harsh  word.  They  had  lost  even  the  blue  jay 
tongue,  and  talked  like  two  chippies  in  love.  They  had 
a peculiar  little  note  like  the  mewing  of  a pussy-cat.  I 
felt  ashamed  to  touch  the  home  of  such  a gentle  pair. 

If  this  was  not  a twofold  bird  character,  I never  ex- 
pect to  see  one.  They  go  sneaking  through  the  woods, 
stealing  eggs  and  wrecking  homes  of  others,  and  squeal- 
ing in  delight  at  every  chance  to  pillage — but  this  is  legiti- 
mate in  the  blue  jay  code  of  morals.  I have  often  won- 
dered whether  jays  plunder  other  jays,  or  whether  there 
is  honor  among  bird  thieves.  There  are  robber  barons 
among  birds  as  among  men.  But  doves  could  not  be  more 
gentle  and  loving  about  the  home,  for  the  jays  were  de- 
voted parents. 

If  this  pair  of  jays  carried  on  their  nest  robbing,  they 
did  it  on  the  quiet  away  from  home,  for  in  the  thicket,  and 
only  a few  yards  away,  I found  a robin’s  nest  with  eggs, 
and  the  nest  of  a thrush  with  young  birds.  Perhaps  the 
jays  wanted  to  stand  well  with  their  neighbors  and  live 
in  peace.  I am  sure  if  the  robins  had  thought  the  jays 
were  up  to  mischief,  they  would  have  hustled  them  out 
of  the  thicket.  I think  we  give  both  the  crow  and  the  jay 
more  blame  for  nest  robbing  than  they  deserve,  for  inves- 
tigation shows  that  they  eat  many  insects,  and  in  some 


Two  Studies  in  Blue  165 

cases  I have  known  the  jays  to  live  largely  on  wheat  and 
other  grains. 

Throughout  the  East  the  bluebird  is  known  as  the 
forerunner  of  spring.  The  bluebirds  are  the  first  to  re- 
turn, and  they  bring  the  spring  with  them.  But  in  the 
West,  where  the  winters  are  not  so  cold,  a few  always 
stay  the  year  around.  They  are  together  in  small  flocks 
during  the  day  and  sleep  together  at  night.  One  evening 
I saw  four  huddled  together  in  one  of  my  bird-boxes. 
During  the  hard  days  of  rain  and  snow  they  were  con- 
tinually together,  and  returned  at  night  to  stay  in  the  box. 
I think  they  were  partly  drawn  to  return  each  day  by 
the  food  I put  out.  When  I first  saw  them  in  the  back 
yard  I tossed  a worm  out  of  the  window,  and  it  had 
hardly  struck  the  ground  W'hen  it  was  snapped  up.  They 
were  all  hungry,  for  they  ate  half  a cupful  of  worms. 

The  bluebird,  the  wren,  and  the  swallow  have  taken 
remarkably  to  civilization.  They  formerly  built  in  holes 
in  old  trees  in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  but  now  they  prefer 
a house  in  the  back  yard.  In  one  locality  near  my  home 
we  used  to  find  the  bluebirds  nesting  every  year  in  some 
old  stumps.  Now  several  residences  have  been  built  near, 
and  in  three  of  the  yards  there  are  bird-boxes,  and  the 
bluebirds  have  abandoned  the  stumps  and  taken  to  mod- 
ern homes.  A bluebird  has  better  protection  in  a back 
yard,  and  he  knows  it.  Then  if  the  owners  like  him,  he 
grows  fond  enough  of  them  to  perch  on  the  hand,  and  he 
pays  rent  in  the  quality  of  his  song  and  by  ridding  the 
fruit  trees  of  harmful  worms. 

Although  the  bluebird  often  lives  about  the  city,  I 
associate  him  with  country  life.  I imagine  he  likes  a farm 


1 66 


American  Birds 


home  better  than  a city  flat.  I have  a friend  in  the  coun- 
try who  has  bird-boxes  up  in  various  places  about  his  farm. 
Most  of  them  find  occupants  every  year.  An  old  square 
box  that  is  set  in  the  crotch  of  an  apple  tree  is  ahead  in 
the  record.  This  box  was  put  up  in  the  spring  of  1897, 
and  was  taken  by  a pair  of  bluebirds.  It  is  only  four  feet 
from  the  ground  and  has  a removable  top,  so  that  the 
owner  may  readily  make  friends  of  the  tenants.  When  I 
opened  the  box  and  looked  in,  the  mother  sat  quietly  on 
her  eggs,  and  was  tame  enough  to  allow  us  to  stroke  her 
feathers. 

This  box  is  now  covered  with  moss  and  lichens,  but  it 
is  famous  in  bluebird  history.  It  has  been  occupied  every 
year  since  it  was  put  up,  and  not  a single  year  has  there 
been  less  than  two  broods  reared,  and  several  times  three. 
The  record  year  was  in  1904,  when  the  bluebirds  had 
two  families  of  seven  and  one  of  five  birds,  and  succeeded 
in  raising  them  all.  Seven  is  a large  family  for  bluebirds, 
and  it  is  more  remarkable  that  there  should  have  been 
seven  in  the  second  brood  and  then  a third  brood.  In  the 
eight  years  there  have  been  over  one  hundred  and  ten 
young  bluebirds  hatched  in  this  box  in  the  apple  tree.  One 
would  think  the  bird  world  would  soon  be  overcrowded 
with  bluebirds,  but  it  isn’t.  There  seem  to  be  no  more 
bluebirds  about  the  farm  than  eight  years  ago,  although 
there  are  generally  two  or  three  broods  raised  in  other 
boxes  near  by.  It  all  goes  to  show  how  the  bird  popu- 
lation decreases  in  numbers.  The  new  birds  of  each 
year  take  the  place  of  the  numbers  that  die  during  the 
winter.  Birds  have  many  enemies  that  we  know  not  of. 
Many  die  of  disease,  many  starve  or  die  of  cold,  and 


Two  Studies  in  Blue  167 

many  are  killed  by  birds  of  prey  and  animals  that  hunt 
small  birds. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  whether  the  same  pair 
returns  each  year  to  the  box  in  the  tree,  or  how  many 
different  pairs  have  lived  there.  Sometimes  the  same  pair 
has  returned,  but  it  is  improbable  that  they  have  lived 
longer  than  three  or  four  years.  If  one  of  the  birds  died, 
the  other  may  have  taken  another  mate  and  returned  to 
the  same  home. 

I find  it  an  easy  matter  to  make  friends  with  the  birds. 
If  one  has  a yard  with  some  trees  and  bushes,  he  may 
have  a real  bird  retreat.  Fortunate  is  the  boy  or  girl 
who  has  a big  yard  with  a tangle  of  bushes  or  an  old 
fence — some  thick  trees  and  a wild  corner  where  the  weeds 
run  riot.  Under  such  conditions  he  ought  to  go  right 
into  the  bird  business.  Arrange  a shallow  dish  or  basin, 
where  fresh  water  may  be  kept  every  day  for  the  birds 
to  bathe  and  drink.  This  makes  a most  attractive  bird 
resort  for  the  summer.  Then  build  some  bird-houses,  and 
put  them  about  in  the  trees  or  on  some  posts,  and  you 
are  sure  to  have  tenants  all  summer.  For  the  fall  and 
winter  start  a bird  lunch-counter  by  all  means.  Nail  up 
a box  or  board  just  outside  your  window  where  you  can 
watch  it  and  where  you  can  set  the  table  without  the  least 
trouble.  Then  keep  it  supplied  with  a few  cracked  nuts, 
seeds,  and  crumbs.  Suet  chopped  in  fine  bits  may  be  put 
out,  or  a large  piece  may  be  nailed  down,  so  it  can  be 
pecked,  but  not  dislodged.  The  news  will  spread,  and 
you  will  have  boarders  every  day.  If  you  are  regular, 
your  boarders  will  be  regular.  The  guests  will  assemble 
even  before  the  meals  are  served.  In  this  way  one  may 


American  Birds 


168 

establish  the  closest  relations  with  his  feathered  visitors. 
Accustom  them  to  your  presence  gradually,  and  do  not 
make  sudden  movements,  and  the  birds  will  learn  not  to 
be  afraid.  Later  you  may  even  have  the  birds  come  at 
call  or  take  a bit  from  your  hand.  Such  a bird  friend- 
ship is  worth  working  for,  and  such  familiarity  with 
the  wild  birds  cannot  help  but  make  a boy  or  girl’s  life 
better. 

In  the  side  of  our  tank  house  we  bored  two  holes 
about  four  feet  apart  and  nailed  up  boxes  on  the  inside. 
One  of  these  was  soon  taken  by  a bluebird.  The  female 
went  in  and  looked  the  box  through,  and  in  a moment 
came  out  and  perched  on  the  wire  while  the  male  took  a 
look.  The  next  day  the  female  began  carrying  straws. 
She  had  a devoted  husband,  but  he  was  merely  an  attend- 
ant when  it  came  to  work.  He  watched  and  applauded, 
but  he  didn’t  help  build.  I don’t  know  but  that  he  was 
too  lazy;  or  maybe  he  didn’t  know  how,  or  the  wife  didn’t 
want  him  bothering  while  she  was  building  to  suit  herself. 
It  looked  to  me  as  if  he  were  ornamental  without  being 
useful.  But  after  watching  awhile,  it  seemed  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  build  and  his  to  watch  and  encourage.  When 
she  carried  in  the  material  and  fixed  it,  she  popped  out 
of  the  hole  and  waited  while  he  went  in  to  look,  and  then 
out  he  would  come  with  words  of  praise,  and  away  they 
would  fly  together. 

I had  a splendid  arrangement  to  watch  the  builders  at 
close  quarters.  I could  go  in  the  tank  house  and  close 
the  door,  and  then  in  the  darkness  I could  look  through 
a crack  in  the  box,  and  with  my  eye  less  than  a foot  away 
could  watch  every  movement  the  birds  made.  While  the 


Two  Studies  in  Blue  169 

mother  was  setting  on  the  eggs  she  became  very  tame,  and 
we  often  reached  in  and  stroked  her  feathers. 

When  the  young  birds  came  I watched  the  mother 
come  to  feed  and  brood  her  young.  The  father  was  the 
ever-watchful  admirer,  but  the  mother  was  all  business, 
and  paid  no  attention  to  him  except  to  knock  him  out  of 
the  way  when  he  was  too  devoted.  The  mother  always 
brought  in  the  food,  and  the  father  kept  staying  away 
more  and  more,  until  the  young  birds  were  grown. 

One  day  while  I was  watching,  the  mother  was  feed- 
ing the  youngsters  on  maggots  almost  entirely.  She  was 
gone  quite  a while,  but  each  time  returned  with  a large 
mouthful,  which  she  fed  to  the  young.  Occasionally  one 
of  the  young  failed  to  get  all  of  them,  and  if  one  dropped 
the  mother  picked  it  up  and  ate  it  herself. 

One  of  the  eggs  was  addled  and  did  not  hatch,  but 
the  mother  was  very  fond  of  it.  She  would  look  at  it 
almost  every  time  she  returned,  and  would  turn  it  over, 
and  then  cover  it  a few  moments,  as  if  she  were  sure  it 
contained  a baby  bird. 

The  nest  was  lined  with  horsehair,  and  once  when  the 
mother  fed  one  of  the  chicks,  the  food  caught  and  the 
little  bird  swallowed  the  hair  too,  but  both  ends  stuck 
out  of  his  mouth.  He  kept  shaking  his  head,  but  could 
not  get  rid  of  it.  I waited  to  see  if  the  mother  would 
assist  him,  but  she  didn’t  seem  to  notice  his  trouble,  so 
I had  to  reach  in  and  dislodge  the  hair.  Otherwise  I am 
afraid  it  would  have  fared  badly  with  the  chick. 

These  bluebirds  had  five  young  in  their  first  brood. 
When  the  first  youngster  left  the  nest  the  father  became 
more  attentive,  and  helped  care  for  the  little  ones  that 


American  Birds 


1 70 

were  just  starting  out  into  the  world.  They  all  stayed 
about  the  yard  till  the  young  knew  how  to  hunt  for  them- 
selves. Finally  three  of  them  disappeared.  I suppose 
they  went  off  with  other  bluebirds,  but  two  of  the  young 
still  stayed  with  us.  The  parents  themselves  seemed  to 
disappear  for  a few  days,  and  I thought  they  had  left  for 
good.  Then  one  morning  I saw  the  mother  enter  the 
house  again,  and  the  father  was  there,  too,  perched  on  the 
wire.  He  was  more  attentive  than  formerly.  The  next 
day  I found  a fresh  egg  in  the  nest.  The  parents  had 
returned  to  raise  a new  family. 

There  were  only  three  eggs  in  the  second  setting,  and 
all  hatched.  The  two  young  birds  of  the  first  brood  fol- 
lowed the  father  about  while  the  mother  was  setting. 
Then  when  the  mother  began  feeding  her  second  family 
I made  some  interesting  observations.  Her  older  chil- 
dren began  following  her  about  to  hunt  food,  and  to  my 
surprise  I saw  one  of  them  bring  some  worms,  and  after 
the  mother  fed,  the  young  bluebird  went  into  the  box 
and  fed  her  small  brothers  and  sisters.  After  that  I 
watched  closely,  and  often  saw  the  birds  of  the  first  brood 
feed  the  little  ones  of  the  second  brood.  Perhaps  the 
two  birds  of  the  first  brood  were  girls  and  took  readily  to 
housework.  They  may  have  been  learning  for  the  next 
season,  when  they  themselves  expected  to  have  a home. 

One  of  the  young  birds  was  very  enthusiastic  in  help- 
ing her  mother.  For  a while  she  fed  as  often  as  the 
mother.  Several  times  when  the  latter  brought  food,  the 
young  bird  flew  at  her  and  tried  to  take  the  morsel  she 
had  in  her  mouth,  as  if  saying,  “ Let  me  feed  the  chil- 
dren,” and  twice  I saw  the  mother  yield  and  let  her  older 


Two  Studies  in  Blue  171 

child  feed  the  younger  ones.  It  was  a very  pretty  bit 
of  bird  life  to  watch  these  bluebirds.  We  were  anxious 
to  get  a photograph  of  the  mother  and  the  young  bird 
helping  her.  We  tried  by  getting  on  top  of  the  house  and 
focusing  the  camera  on  a wire  where  the  birds  often 
alighted.  We  finally  got  one  view  of  the  two  as  the  young 
bird  was  just  in  the  act  of  jumping  for  the  worm  the 
mother  held. 


THE  BLUE  JAY  FAMILY 

The  Jays  are  one  branch  of  the  Corvidae  or  Crow  family,  but  in  con- 
trast to  the  crows,  the  jays  are  birds  of  bright  and  varied  colors,  gener- 
ally blue,  and  often  the  head  is  crested.  The  jay  is  a well-known  char- 
acter everywhere,  but  has  a bad  reputation.  He  is  about  twelve  inches 
long  and  lives  on  grain,  grasshoppers,  caterpillars,  and  often  eats  the 
eggs  of  other  birds. 

Blue  Jay  ( Cyanocitta  cristata ):  Male  and  female,  crest  and  back, 
light  purplish  blue;  wings  and  tail,  blue  barred  with  black;  throat,  gray, 
fading  to  white  on  belly;  a black  collar  across  lower  throat  and  up  sides 
of  head  behind  crest.  Lives  throughout  eastern  United  States,  where 
it  nests  in  May  and  June,  making  a bulky  nest  generally  hidden  in  a 
thick  tree.  Eggs,  four  to  six,  varying  from  greenish  to  buff,  thickly 
marked  with  brown  and  purplish  spots. 

California  Jay  ( Aphelocoma  calif ornica ):  Male  and  female,  upper 
parts,  blue;  sides  of  head,  grayish-black,  with  light  stripe  over  eye;  under 
parts,  white,  washed  with  light  blue  on  sides  of  chest.  Nesting  habits 
same  as  above.  Lives  on  Pacific  Coast  from  Columbia  River  south. 

THE  BLUEBIRD  FAMILY 

This  family  of  songsters  may  be  recognized  by  the  rich  blue  dress. 
The  Bluebird  is  about  seven  inches  in  length.  It  frequents  the  woods 
and  waysides  and  likes  to  nest  in  bird-boxes  about  the  dooryard.  It  is 
a quiet,  gentle-mannered  bird  and  readily  becomes  semi-domesticated. 


172 


American  Birds 


It  lives  largely  on  caterpillars,  grasshoppers,  and  wild  berries.  It  is 
called  the  forerunner  of  spring  because  it  often  comes  before  the  first 
spring  days  begin. 

Bluebird  (St ala  stalls):  Male,  azure  blue  above;  wings,  blue  with 
dark  edgings;  breast,  brick-red  and  lower  parts,  white.  Female,  duller 
blue;  breast,  paler  and  more  brownish.  Young  birds  have  speckled 
breast.  Lives  throughout  eastern  United  States,  one  of  the  first  birds  to 
arrive  from  the  South,  coming  generally  in  March.  Nests  in  an  aban- 
doned woodpecker  hole  or  in  a bird-house.  From  four  to  six  pale  blue 

eggs- 

Western  Bluebird  (Si ala  mexicana  occidentalis):  Resembles  the 
above  closely,  with  more  reddish-brown  on  the  back.  Inhabits  the 
Pacific  Coast  region. 


BASKET  MAKERS,  THE  VIREO  AND 
ORIOLE 


XVI 


BASKET  MAKERS,  THE  VIREO  AND 
ORIOLE 

DOES  the  bird  build  its  nest  by  instinct  or  does  it  exert 
a reasoning  power?  Why  doesn’t  the  vireo  build 
a nest  like  the  robin?  The  vireos  build  basket  nests;  why 
is  it  that  all  vireo  nests  are  similar?  A young  vireo  that 
has  never  built  a nest  will  make  one  as  his  parents  before 
him.  Lie  undoubtedly  has  the  instinct  to  make  a basket 
nest,  and  does  not  know  how  to  make  any  other.  But 
we  often  see  nests  that  are  poorly  built,  and  this  shows 
that  young  birds  are  not  as  skillful  as  older  ones. 

Are  birds  influenced  by  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  in 
making  their  nests?  Do  the  vireos  adorn  their  nests  with 
lichens  to  make  them  attractive,  or  to  make  them  invisible 
among  the  leaves  and  limbs,  or  just  because  they  find  the 
lichens  handy  to  build  with?  Many  people  have  argued 
that  the  birds  are  influenced  principally  by  one  of  these 
factors,  but  I see  no  reason  why  all  these  different  things 
do  not  influence  the  bird  as  it  would  influence  us  if  we 
were  to  build  under  similar  circumstances. 

Imitation  is  perhaps  the  strongest  factor  in  the  life 
of  the  chick  from  the  time  it  leaves  the  shell  till  it  is  a 
full-grown  bird.  Nest  building,  like  singing,  may  be 
largely  by  imitation,  and  the  lasting  impressions  in  a bird’s 
life  must  be  during  the  first  few  weeks  of  its  existence. 

i75 


American  Birds 


i 76 

Experiment  shows  that  a baby  linnet  brought  up  by  a tit- 
lark took  all  the  notes  from  that  bird,  and  even  though 
placed  in  the  company  of  other  linnets  later,  he  did  not  sing 
as  they  sang.  This  law  among  birds  that  makes  the  earli- 
est impressions  the  habits  of  after  life  would  make  a 
strange  bird  world  if  revoked.  If  the  nestlings  did  not 
learn  the  songs  from  their  parents,  what  a grand  medley 
we  should  have;  robins  singing  like  wrens  and  larks  like 
sparrows,  till  we  could  no  longer  tell  birds  by  their  songs. 

It  is  largely  this  habit  of  imitation  in  the  bird  that 
prompts  him  to  adorn  his  nest  with  lichens  and  to  build 
a home  that  blends  so  closely  with  the  surrounding 
branches.  Some  people  would  have  us  believe  that  the  bird 
has  reasoned  it  out,  and  builds  in  this  way  to  protect  his 
nest  from  enemies.  The  rufous  hummingbird  is  accus- 
tomed to  see  the  lichen-covered  limbs  of  the  trees,  and 
when  it  builds  it  collects  these  lichens  and  shingles  its  home 
with  them.  Out  of  fifty  nests  of  the  rufous  hummer  all 
were  built  after  the  same  manner.  But  the  black-chinned 
hummer  of  southern  California  generally  builds  in  the 
sycamores  and  oaks.  The  leaves  of  the  sycamores  are 
light-colored,  and  have  a fine  yellow  down  on  one  side. 
The  bird  selects  this  down  and  builds  its  home  entirely 
of  it,  so  it  is  light  yellow  and  can  hardly  be  seen  among 
the  leaves  surrounding  it.  The  two  nests  are  very  dif- 
ferent in  appearance,  but  the  fact  that  both  nests  are  pro- 
tectively colored  is  from  the  use  of  handy  material  rather 
than  the  result  of  the  birds  seeking  certain  things  for  the 
purpose  of  protection. 

The  last  week  in  April,  before  the  trees  were  well  leaved, 
I heard  the  call  of  the  Warbling  Vireo  ( Vireo  gilvus) . 


Basket  Makers,  the  Vireo  and  Oriole  177 

“ See  here!  See  me!  ” and  a moment  later,  “ See  here! 
See  here ! See  me ! ” he  said  from  the  hillside,  and  I went 
up  to  look  at  him.  He  sang  for  me  within  a few  feet. 
He  had  just  arrived  from  the  South  and  he  was  hungry 
— no  time  to  bother  with  people.  He  jumped  from  limb 
to  limb  looking,  always  looking  for  food.  The  singing 
was  spontaneous,  thrown  in  for  every  worm  he  found. 
There  was  no  mate  about;  she  had  likely  not  arrived 
yet.  He  intended  to  keep  on  singing  till  she  did  come. 
I had  been  watching  and  waiting  for  the  vireo  because 
I wanted  to  study  his  method  of  nest  building  and  get  his 
picture,  so  I watched  him  closely  during  the  weeks  that 
followed. 

It  is  very  likely  that  both  this  vireo  and  his  mate 
had  built  nests  before,  for  they  built  such  a pretty  one. 
It  was  not  a haphazard  site  they  selected.  They  searched 
for  positions  and  studied  different  places.  Then  at  last 
they  decided  upon  a hazel  bush.  Both  began  work, 
and  they  worked  independently,  each  hunting  moss  and 
fibres  and  weaving  them  in  to  his  own  satisfaction.  Al- 
though they  worked  according  to  their  own  ideas  each  was 
satisfied  with  what  the  other  did.  When  it  came  to  dec- 
orating, I think  it  was  the  wife  who  shingled  the  outside 
of  the  home.  She,  perhaps,  had  more  taste  than  her 
husband. 

The  vireos  built  their  nest  in  a good  position  for  it 
was  entirely  shielded  by  leaves.  You  couldn’t  see  the  nest 
from  the  front;  it  was  roofed  over  with  a big  hazel  leaf, 
and  in  hot  or  rainy  weather  the  mother  had  this  canopy 
over  her  head.  It  was  even  more  useful  when  the  young 
were  hatched,  for  both  mother  and  father  were  away  at 


American  Birds 


178 

times  hunting  food,  and  then  the  nestlings  were  protected 
by  the  leaves.  Each  time  the  mother  had  to  reach  under 
and  raise  the  roof  to  feed  her  bantlings. 

In  order  to  get  some  pictures  we  tied  a string  to  the 
branch  that  held  the  basket  nest  and  anchored  it  two  feet 
nearer  the  ground.  When  the  mother  returned  with  a 
worm,  and  dropped  from  the  upper  branch,  where  she 
always  lighted,  to  the  limb  where  the  nest  was  hung,  she 
fluttered  in  the  air  trying  to  light  on  her  accustomed  perch. 
She  looked  puzzled  and  went  back  to  try  it  again,  but 
when  she  put  her  feet  down  to  light  there  was  no  perch. 
Then  the  father  came  and  he  did  the  same  thing.  There 
was  no  alarm.  They  looked  at  each  other  a few  minutes 
and  talked,  and  then  the  mother  dropped  to  the  nest  and 
fed  her  children.  She  saw  me  lying  in  the  grass  and 
scolded  mildly  for  my  impudence.  But  she  straightway 
forgot  the  nest  had  been  lowered,  for  when  she  came  back 
she  missed  the  limb  again  and  tried  to  light  where  the  nest 
had  formerly  been.  Then,  to  be  sure  she  was  not  dream- 
ing, she  lit  near  the  foot  of  the  branch  and  hopped  along 
till  she  came  to  the  nest. 

Once  the  mother  came  with  a triangular  piece  of  food 
in  her  bill,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  be  from  the  back  of 
a beetle.  She  thrust  it  into  one  open  mouth,  but  the  chick 
could  not  swallow  it.  She  watched  him  a moment  and 
then  took  it  and  thrust  it  into  another  mouth.  This  chick 
had  the  same  trouble,  but  she  flew  away  leaving  it  there. 
And  all  the  time  the  young  bird  sat  there  with  the  food 
bulging  out  of  his  mouth.  Several  times  he  tried  to  swal- 
low it,  but  it  was  no  use;  it  was  too  big  and  unyield- 
ing. When  the  mother  came  again  and  saw  the  food 


Basket  Makers,  the  Vireo  and  Oriole  179 

still  in  his  mouth  she  tried  another  chick  with  it,  but  he 
could  not  get  it  down.  She  had  to  try  several  times  before 
she  seemed  to  realize  that  the  bite  was  too  big,  and  then 
she  dropped  it  over  the  nest  edge. 

Just  across  the  ravine  from  our  vireo’s  nest  a pair 
of  Cassin  vireos  had  a home,  and  all  but  one  of  the  young 
birds  had  left  the  nest.  This  last  chick  kept  calling  for 
food,  so  we  put  him  on  the  hazel  limb  beside  our  nest. 
Then  we  waited  developments,  half  expecting  the  mother 
to  knock  him  headlong  when  she  returned.  The  minute 
the  new  bantling  heard  her  coming,  open  popped  his ' 
mouth,  and  as  he  stood  between  her  and  the  nest  the 
mother  couldn’t  resist  but  gave  him  the  mouthful.  But 
the  next  time  she  came  she  stepped  right  over  him  as  if 
he  were  nothing  more  than  a leaf,  and  she  did  the  same 
every  time  after,  paying  no  attention  whatever  to  him,  so 
we  had  to  return  him  to  his  own  home  where  he  was  cared 
for  by  his  own  parents. 

While  the  vireos  were  in  the  midst  of  household 
affairs  we  found  an  Oriole  ( Icterus  bullocki)  building  its 
basket  nest  in  a weeping  willow  that  stood  in  the  chicken 
yard.  Last  year  the  nest  was  swung  in  the  very  top 
branches,  but  this  year  they  built  among  the  leaves  beside 
the  chicken  house,  twelve  feet  up.  We  tied  a rope  up 
near  the  base  of  the  limb  and  drew  it  tight  from  the  fence, 
so  when  the  mother  returned  with  food  for  her  young  she 
found  her  house  had  sunk  four  feet  nearer  the  ground. 
Then  we  set  up  a step-ladder  so  we  could  look  into  the 
basket. 

I never  saw  birds  more  in  love  than  the  orioles  were. 
We  watched  them  from  the  time  they  were  first  mated. 


American  Birds 


1 80 

They  were  always  together  in  the  trees  about  the  orchard. 
Beyond  the  chicken  yard  was  an  old  deserted  cabin.  A 
part  of  the  window  had  been  broken  out,  and  the  pair 
often  sat  there  on  the  sash.  Sometimes  they  hopped  in 
and  sat  on  the  table  inside.  I didn’t  know  at  the  time, 
but  I think  they  were  attracted  by  the  reflections  in  the 
glass.  The  female  would  flutter  before  the  glass  and 
then  light  in  the  broken  pane  and  look  about  with  the 
most  mysterious  expression. 

Just  at  the  side  of  the  house  were  three  large  cherry 
trees  with  wide-spreading  branches  reaching  almost  to  the 
windows.  When  the  dark  shades  were  drawn  the  win- 
dows made  a very  good  mirror.  One  day  when  the  pair 
of  orioles  were  playing  about  the  cherry  trees  I saw  the 
female  light  on  a low  branch  in  front  of  the  window. 
Then  in  a few  moments  she  flew  down  and  lit  on  the  sash. 
The  next  day  I saw  both  the  orioles  at  the  window.  The 
male  sat  near  on  the  branches  and  the  female  on  the  sill. 
As  I watched  she  fluttered  up  against  the  window,  trying 
her  best  to  hang  on,  till  she  slipped  down  to  the  bottom. 
Then  she  turned  her  head  and  watched  in  the  glass.  The 
more  she  looked  the  more  excited  she  seemed  to  get,  and 
she  fluttered  against  the  glass  till  out  of  breath.  Then 
the  mate  flew  down  beside  her.  Time  after  time  the  birds 
were  seen  at  the  window.  Had  the  lady,  like  Narcissus, 
fallen  in  love  with  herself,  or  was  curiosity  leading  her 
on?  I never  saw  a pair  of  birds  with  such  a mania  for 
windows.  I thought  the  male  would  hurl  himself  at  the  re- 
flection he  saw  in  the  window,  but,  contrary  to  my  expecta- 
tions, he  took  the  picture  as  a matter  of  course.  He  sat 
on  the  sill  or  perched  near  by  on  the  branches  while  his 


Basket  Makers,  the  Vireo  and  Oriole  i 8 1 

wife,  so  intent  with  the  bird  in  the  glass,  flew  against  the 
window,  but  never  accomplished  anything  except  to  slide 
to  the  bottom. 

I fear  she  would  have  gone  insane  flying  against  the 
window  had  the  nest  building  and  family  cares  not  taken 
her  away.  But  I don’t  believe  there  was  a day,  unless 
it  was  after  the  mother  began  setting,  that  the  pair  did 
not  appear  at  the  window.  The  bird  in  the  giass  house 
had  a great  fascination,  and  the  window  itself  was 
streaked  and  spotted  by  the  feet  and  bills  of  the  orioles. 

One  day  I saw  a streak  of  orange  and  black  flash 
into  the  cherry  tree  beside  the  willow.  It  was  a male  ori- 
ole, but  not  the  guardian  of  the  nest,  for  he  was  a more 
deeply  marked  bird,  an  older  oriole,  for  the  plumage  of 
the  males  grows  deeper  in  color  and  more  striking  as  they 
advance  in  years.  But  the  new  arrival  had  hardly  lit 
when  there  was  a flash  of  color,  and  the  father  of  the 
nestlings  darted  at  the  intruder  like  a little  fury.  Through 
the  branches,  under  trees,  over  the  barn,  and  across  the 
orchard  the  righteous  pursuer  and  the  invidious  pursued 
darted.  A father  bird  has  the  right  to  the  trees  about 
his  home.  This  tradition  is  sacred  in  bird  life,  and  no 
matter  how  large  and  strong  the  meddler  he  cannot  long 
stand  the  attack  of  an  enraged  father. 

We  set  one  camera  on  the  top  of  the  ladder  pointing 
at  the  nest,  and  draped  it  with  willow  branches.  The 
mother  would  peek  in  from  the  back  door,  and  then  edge 
slowly  down  the  long  braids  of  the  willow  limbs  to  thrust 
a morsel  in  the  mouth  of  a clamoring  baby.  The  father 
fed  occasionally.  He  often  paused  on  a dead  limb  over 
the  chicken  house.  We  placed  another  camera  here  on  the 


American  Birds 


182 

top  of  the  old  house  and  hid  it  under  a green  cloth  and 
branches,  and  in  this  way  got  some  snaps  of  him.  While 
we  were  waiting  during  the  afternoon  for  chance  shots  at 
the  birds,  I heard  the  challenging  call  of  the  male  oriole 
down  at  the  other  end  of  the  orchard. 

During  the  next  day  we  watched  about  the  oriole’s 
nest;  both  the  birds  were  feeding  the  young,  and  the  male 
was  not  any  wilder  than  the  female.  As  the  day  wore 
on  the  male  seemed  to  be  doing  most  of  the  feeding, 
for  the  visits  of  the  mother  were  less  frequent.  The  nest 
was  made  almost  entirely  of  horsehair  and  the  orioles 
knew  just  how  to  use  the  material,  for  it  was  woven  so 
that  the  sides  bulged  out  with  the  constituency  of  a hollow 
rubber  ball.  But  horsehair  is  often  dangerous  to  birds. 
I saw  the  father  almost  get  caught  in  one  of  the  hairs. 
When  he  went  to  feed  the  young  he  put  his  head  through 
a loop  in  one  of  the  hairs,  and  when  he  started  to  leave 
he  twisted  the  noose  about  his  neck.  He  jerked  back 
several  times  to  no  avail,  and  then  fortunately  turned  back 
the  same  way,  and  the  noose  slipped  over  his  head,  ruffling 
his  feathers,  and  he  was  free.  Had  he  not  made  the  right 
turn  he  would  surely  have  hung  himself.  I know  of  sev- 
eral cases  where  birds  have  been  hung  in  this  way.  Horse- 
hairs and  strings  are  comparatively  new  things  in  bird 
architecture  and  often  cause  trouble,  just  as  in  rapid  flight 
a bird  in  the  city  often  strikes  a telephone  wire  and  is 
killed  by  the  force  of  the  blow. 

The  following  day  I again  saw  the  flash  of  the  in- 
truding black  and  orange  and  the  accustomed  hot  chase 
through  the  orchard.  In  the  afternoon  I noticed  that  the 
young  orioles  were  fed  entirely  from  the  bill  of  the  father. 


Basket  Makers,  the  Vireo  and  Oriole  183 

The  mother  came  only  once,  but  she  did  not  bring  food. 
She  sat  about  in  the  cherry  tree  for  a while  and  flew  to 
the  branch  over  the  nest,  but  did  not  go  near  her  children. 
It  seemed  to  me  this  was  rather  negligent  of  the  lady  of 
the  house,  but  the  father  was  doing  well.  He  returned 
every  few  minutes  with  food,  so  the  children  had  their 
meals. 

Next  morning  the  mother  did  not  appear  once  about 
the  home,  and  I became  suspicious.  We  watched  dur- 
ing the  whole  afternoon,  just  because  our  curiosity  was 
aroused,  but  she  did  not  return.  The  father  was  alone. 
That  night  a heavy  rain  blew  up.  The  three  young  birds 
were  partly  feathered,  and  we  feared  the  father  would 
not  hover  them.  When  we  went  out  with  a lantern  our 
expectations  were  realized,  and  we  tried  to  tie  a roof  over 
the  nest.  In  the  morning  the  young  birds  were  dead,  for 
the  water  had  run  down  the  branches  and  chilled  them 
to  death.  The  father  was  there  with  food,  but  to  no  avail. 
And  the  mother,  where  she  was  I do  not  know. 

During  the  nesting  period  a heavy  rain  creates  havoc 
among  bird  homes.  I’ve  seen  half  a dozen  different  fam- 
ilies of  young  birds  killed  by  a heavy  shower.  And  how 
many  more  there  must  be  that  we  do  not  see.  If  the 
nest  contains  eggs  or  very  young  birds,  the  mother  will 
hover  them  and  protect  her  babies  from  the  water.  But 
when  the  birds  are  half  feathered  out  she  in  many  cases 
no  longer  hovers  them,  for  they  are  able  to  keep  them- 
selves warm. 

I have  never  known  just  what  to  think  of  this  pair 
of  orioles,  but  I know  from  experience  that  birds  are  often 
fickle.  I know  of  an  instance  where  a newly  mated  pair 


American  Birds 


i 84 

of  orioles  were  living  about  a grove  of  trees,  and  the  male 
bird  was  in  such  fine  plumage  that  a collector  shot  him 
for  his  cabinet.  The  next  day  the  female  appeared  with 
a new  husband,  who  was  as  bright  and  fine  looking  as 
the  bird  she  lost  the  day  before.  At  the  first  chance  this 
male  was  also  shot,  partly,  it  was  said,  because  he  was 
such  a fine  bird  and  partly  to  see  if  the  female  would  find 
another  as  readily.  Two  days  later  she  appeared  with 
a third  husband,  who  went  the  way  of  the  two  former 
ones.  The  female  then  disappeared  for  a few  days,  but 
returned  again  with  a fourth  suitor.  These  two  began 
building  in  a eucalyptus  tree  and  soon  had  a family  of 
young  birds.  This  may  be  a remarkable  case  of  wooing 
and  winning,  for  I can’t  see  where  this  supply  of  male 
birds  came  from  unless  the  widow  oriole  was  breaking  up 
other  families. 


THE  VIREO  FAMILY 

These  birds  are  often  called  Greenlets;  the  name  comes  from  the 
Latin  vireo,  meaning  I am  green.  They  are  small  birds  about  five  or 
six  inches  in  length,  and  dressed  in  soft  tones  of  olive-green  without 
any  brilliant  markings.  The  bill  is  slender  but  stouter  than  a war- 
bler’s, and  has  a slight  hook  at  the  end.  They  have  sweet,  warbling 
songs,  and  are  very  active  in  their  search  for  insects  among  the  trees. 

Warbling  Vireo  ( Vireo  gilvus ):  Male  and  female,  above,  pale  olive- 
green;  grayish  on  head  and  more  olive  on  rump;  white  streak  through  the 
eye;  no  wing  bars;  below,  dull  yellowish,  whiter  on  throat  and  belly. 
Lives  throughout  North  America  in  general,  arriving  from  the  South  in 
May  and  remaining  till  September  or  early  October.  Nest,  cup-shaped, 
hanging  in  the  fork  of  a branch.  Eggs,  three  to  five,  white  with  brown 
dots  more  numerous  on  larger  end. 

There  are  several  other  species  of  vireos  through  the  United  States, 


Basket  Makers,  the  Vireo  and  Oriole  185 

but  all  bear  a close  resemblance  in  size  and  color  and  nest  similarly. 
The  Red-eyed,  White-eyed,  and  Yellow-throated  Vireos  are  found  in  the 
East,  while  Cassin  and  Least  Vireos  are  common  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 


THE  ORIOLE  FAMILY 

The  Oriole  may  be  recognized  by  the  brilliant  colors  of  his  dress, 
and  his  pleasing,  rollicking  song.  His  length  is  about  eight  inches.  He 
lives  on  insects,  larvae,  plant-lice,  and  sometimes  eats  fruit.  He  is  known 
as  an  architect  because  of  the  well-woven,  hanging  nest  he  builds  gener- 
ally in  the  trees  that  border  the  sidewalks. 

Baltimore  Oriole  ( Icterus  galbula),  Hang-nest:  Male,  head,  throat, 
and  upper  part  of  back,  black;  wings,  black  with  white  spots  on  edges; 
under  parts  and  rump,  orange  or  orange-red,  the  intensity  of  color  vary- 
ing with  age  and  season.  Female,  paler  and  back  tinged  with  olive; 
below,  dull  orange.  Lives  in  eastern  United  States  to  Rocky  Mountains. 
Migrates  the  last  of  April  and  reaches  the  northern  states  about  the 
second  week  in  May.  Builds  a hanging  basket  suspended  at  the  end  of 
a swaying  branch.  Eggs,  four  to  six,  whitish,  scrawled  with  black  and 
brown  lines. 

Bullock  Oriole  (. Icterus  bullocki ):  Replaces  the  Baltimore  from  the 
Rocky  Mountains  to  the  Pacific.  Slightly  larger  than  above.  In  the 
male,  the  orange  extends  to  the  side  of  the  head,  neck,  and  forehead, 
leaving  only  a narrow  black  space  on  the  throat  and  a black  line 
through  the  eye.  Habits  identical. 


PHCEBE 


XVII 


PHCEBE 


HERE  were  plenty  of  other  birds  building  new 


spring  homes  about  me,  but  Phoebe  ( Sayornis 
nigricans)  occupied  more  of  my  attention  than  all  the 
others.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  so  retiring  and 
had  such  a quiet  personality.  There  is  as  much  differ- 
ence in  birds  as  in  people.  When  a new  neighbor  moves 
into  a community  all  eyes  are  upon  him.  Shall  he  be 
taken  into  fellowship?  Will  his  friendship  be  desirable? 
Certainly  I would  expect  a phcebe  to  be  received  cordially 
if  gentility  counted.  But  it  didn’t  count  in  this  case  for 
the  neighborhood  had  already  been  settled  by  linnets. 

Just  over  the  fence  was  a vine  that  covered  our  neigh- 
bor’s trellis.  It  had  overrun  its  quarters  and  crawled 
along  the  telephone  wire  up  under  the  eaves.  One  morn- 
ing I saw  a phoebe  sitting  on  a rose  stake.  In  a moment 
he  flitted  up  under  the  eaves,  and  sat  on  the  wire  scanning 
one  of  the  brackets.  His  tail  was  tilting  in  quiet  excite- 
ment. He  seemed  to  be  looking  for  a home  site,  and  the 
bracket  under  the  eaves  was  the  best  kind  of  a place.  But 
I have  often  been  disappointed  in  finding  the  nest  site 
I should  select  does  not  exactly  suit  the  bird.  However,  I 
had  great  hopes  that  the  phoebes  would  build  opposite 
just  to  offset  the  noisy  linnets  or  house  finches. 

In  a few  days  there  were  two  phoebes  flitting  back  and 


189 


American  Birds 


1 90 

forth  from  the  rose  stakes  to  the  fence.  Occasionally  they 
flew  up  under  the  eaves  and  sat  on  the  wire.  Then  I felt 
sure  they  would  make  their  home  just  above  the  vine  on 
the  bracket.  But  they  made  no  beginning  of  nest  building, 
although  they  roosted  on  the  wire  at  night.  They  flew 
about  uttering  plaintive  “ De-ars  ” as  if  they  couldn’t 
really  decide. 

Phoebes  do  not  seem  to  look  on  the  bright  side  of 
things.  They  have  a pathetic,  complaining  note  which 
would  catch  your  ear  any  time  among  the  general  chorus 
of  bird  notes.  It  doesn’t  seem  to  be  a complaint,  how- 
ever, but  just  their  serious  way  of  taking  life.  They 
never  seem  really  joyous;  they  are  alert  and  light  in  move- 
ment, but  they  lack  the  brightness  of  other  birds — per- 
haps life  is  too  full  of  business. 

Day  after  day  for  more  than  a week  the  pair  of 
phoebes  inspected  my  neighbor’s  eaves;  then  one  morning 
I saw  a pair  of  linnets  nosing  about  in  the  vine  just  below 
the  wire  where  the  phoebes  roosted.  The  phoebes  saw 
them,  too,  and  straightway  decided  to  build  a nest  on  the 
bracket,  for  they  commenced  carrying  mud  and  straws. 
But  they  had  waited  too  long.  The  linnets  needed  but 
one  look,  for  the  thick  vine  was  just  suited  to  their  needs. 
Then  when  I saw  the  female  linnet  come  with  a string  I 

knew  there  was  trouble  in  the  air.  But  to  my  surprise 

things  did  not  come  to  a crisis  till  three  days  later. 

The  phoebes  were  just  beginning  the  walls  of  their 
home.  One  of  the  birds  was  at  the  bracket  when  the  red- 
headed linnet  and  his  mate  arrived.  Without  a second’s 
pause  there  was  a dash  of  red  and  gray  and  a whirl  of 

black  and  white.  I heard  angry  shrieks  and  frightened 


Phoebe 


191 

cries  as  a couple  of  feathers  wavered  down  to  the  grass. 
Of  course  the  phoebes  would  stand  no  show  with  the  lin- 
nets. The  phoebes  were  peaceable  while  the  linnets  were 
bold  and  impetuous,  noisy  in  joy  as  well  as  in  anger. 

The  linnets  continued  with  their  house  as  rapidly  as 
possible,  while  the  phoebes  sat  around  and  watched  most 
of  the  time.  For  several  days  they  didn’t  add  any  to  their 
home,  yet  they  couldn’t  give  up  the  idea  of  abandoning 
their  site  on  the  bracket.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  after  the 
linnets  ceased  working  and  had  gone  to  bed,  the  phoebes 
were  always  there  flitting  about  the  rose  stakes  and  the 
fence.  Then  in  the  dusk  they  would  flutter  up  to  the  wire 
under  the  eaves  and  go  to  sleep  close  to  the  usurpers’  nest. 
I looked  for  the  tyrants  to  come  out  and  forbid  the  phoebes 
sleeping  so  close  to  them,  but  they  didn’t.  It  was  perhaps 
too  much  trouble  for  them  to  stir  out  after  their  early 
bedtime. 

Before  long  I knew  the  phoebes  had  taken  up  another 
home  site,  for  they  stayed  away  most  of  the  day  and  only 
returned  in  the  evening  to  roost.  Then  later  only  one  of 
them,  the  father  I took  it  to  be,  came  to  roost  on  the  wire. 
I watched  every  evening,  but  he  always  slept  alone. 

I became  curious  as  to  where  the  mother  phaebe  had 
her  nest,  and  I watched  for  several  days  but  could  not  see 
where  the  father  went  or  where  he  came  from.  But  one 
day,  while  crossing  through  a small  clump  of  trees,  I saw 
one  of  the  phoebes  snap  up  a butterfly  and  fly  over  toward 
a deserted  cabin.  No  one  had  occupied  the  cabin  for  sev- 
eral years  I thought,  yet  when  I got  there  I found  it  in- 
habited by  two  families.  At  the  back,  just  under  the 
shelter  of  the  overhanging  shingles,  the  phoebes  had  plas- 


192 


American  Birds 


tered  a mud  nest,  and  now  it  was  heaped  up  full  and  over- 
running with  a family  of  five  children.  Around  to  the 
front  of  the  cabin  I heard  a wren  singing,  and  I rounded 
the  corner  just  in  time  to  see  him  pop  under  the  shanty 
which  was  built  on  the  side  hill;  the  front  part  of  the 
foundation  was  three  feet  above  the  ground.  Getting 
down  on  my  hands  and  knees  I crawled  under  and  looked 
about  the  beams.  On  a cross-board  in  the  corner  were  the 
nest  and  five  eggs  of  the  wren.  With  the  phcebes  in  the 
rear,  and  the  wrens  lodged  in  the  front  of  the  cabin,  there 
wasn’t  the  least  interference,  and  the  place  was  much 
more  interesting  to  me  than  before  the  original  owners 
moved  out. 

The  back  of  the  cabin  sloped  down  to  a height  of  seven 
feet  from  the  ground,  and  it  was  pushed  close  up  against 
the  side  hill;  we  could  stand  on  the  slope  and  look  right 
into  the  phcebes’  nest.  The  mud  nest  was  plastered  on 
the  side  of  the  wall  as  an  eaves  swallow  builds  his  nest. 
With  the  mud  the  phoebes  had  woven  in  straws,  rootlets, 
and  horsehair  to  keep  the  structure  from  crumbling. 
Then  the  cup  was  lined  with  soft  grasses. 

I was  amused  to  see  how  the  phcebes  had  built.  There 
were  five  different  places  where  they  had  started  to  build 
and  had  plastered  a few  wads  of  mud  on  the  wall.  It 
seems  they  had  selected  one  spot  when  they  first  started, 
and  as  all  the  boards  looked  very  much  alike  the  birds 
got  mixed  in  the  location  when  they  returned  each  time; 
but  they  had  not  wasted  much  material,  for  after  a few 
trials  they  had  the  spot  fixed  in  mind  and  both  deposited 
the  mud  on  the  same  board.  It  looked  to  me  as  if  they 
had  stood  off  and  thrown  little  balls  of  clay  against  the 


Phoebe 


*93 


wall,  for  the  boards  were  covered  about  the  nest  with 
small  spatters  of  mud.  But  this  likely  came  from  the 
birds  shaking  their  bills  and  flipping  the  mud  off  while 
building. 

Both  the  mother  and  father  fed  the  nestlings.  They 
often  brought  in  large  butterflies  which  were  fed, 
wings  and  all,  to  the  children.  The  father  phoebe  seemed 
the  tamer  of  the  two.  A nearby  fence  post  was  his  favor- 
ite perch.  He  would  jump  into  the  air  and  glide  closely 
to  the  ground,  a sharp  click,  a turn,  and  a graceful  curve 
back  to  the  post.  “ Pee-we-e ! Pee-we-e ! ” he  would  say, 
as  he  teetered  his  loosely  jointed  tail.  He  seemed  to  talk 
as  much  with  his  tail  as  with  his  mouth,  for  it  was  always 
wagging.  I often  wondered  that  it  did  not  get  tired  and 
fall  off,  he  bobbed  it  so  much. 

I loved  to  watch  phoebe  for  he  had  such  an  air  of  grace 
and  ease,  he  was  so  light  and  quick  on  the  wing.  The 
highest  accomplishment  of  a bird  is  its  power  of  flight. 
In  this  it  differs  from  the  other  creatures  except  the  insects 
and  the  bat.  The  wing  of  the  bird  is  built  with  the  min- 
imum of  weight  for  the  maximum  of  strength.  The  bones 
and  the  quills  are  hollow,  and  the  feathers  are  composed 
of  the  lightest  filaments  joined  together  by  minute  hooks. 

The  problem  of  flight  seemed  the  simplest  thing  in  the 
world  to  phoebe,  yet  it  has  taxed  the  brains  of  the  wisest 
men  to  explain.  The  solution,  as  some  one  has  given  it, 
is  that  the  bend  in  the  wing  feathers  forms  a hollow  under 
the  wing  when  it  is  spread.  The  downward  motion  of 
the  wing  forces  the  bird  up.  But  this  alone  would  not 
enable  the  bird  to  move  forward.  The  muscles  and  the 
bones  of  the  front  end  of  the  wing  are  strong  and  rigid. 


1 94 


American  Birds 


The  back  end  of  the  wing,  or  the  ends  of  the  feathers,  are 
soft  and  flexible.  The  air,  catching  under  the  inverted  cup 
of  the  wing,  escapes  readily  from  the  back  end.  This 
tends  to  lift  the  ends  of  the  feathers,  or  push  them  forward 
out  of  the  way,  and  the  movement,  repeated  with  rapidity, 
causes  flight. 

This  seems  the  best  explanation  of  the  flight  of  birds. 
Yet  each  family  has  a distinctive  flight  of  its  own.  A good 
ornithologist  can  tell  a bird  by  its  flight,  just  as  a person 
may  tell  his  neighbor  by  his  gait.  The  crow  always  flaps 
along  in  a slow  lumbering  way.  The  flicker  opens  and 
closes  his  wings  in  long  sweeps,  similar  to  the  wavy  flight 
of  the  goldfinch,  which  often  twitters  when  flying.  The 
swallows  skim  along  with  exceeding  grace  and  ease,  while 
the  swifts  fly  like  bats,  short  and  jerky  in  movement.  A 
quail  or  pheasant  flushes  with  rapid  beating  of  wings, 
making  a loud  whir.  The  hawks,  eagles,  and  buzzards 
generally  soar  high  in  the  air,  gliding  around  in  wide 
circles.  I have  never  seen  phoebe  fly  high  or  far  at  a 
time.  His  business  is  to  stay  about  near  his  home,  and 
he  is  continually  watching  and  snapping  up  flies. 

One  evening,  a few  days  after  I found  phoebe’s  nest 
in  the  deserted  cabin,  I was  sitting  at  the  window  when  I 
heard  the  father  calling  excitedly  in  the  back  yard.  I went 
out  and  there  he  had  two  of  the  young  phcebes,  one  on 
the  clothes-line  and  one  on  the  woodshed.  He  was  trying 
his  best  to  tell  them  just  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it. 
Soon  he  flew  up  to  the  wire  under  the  eaves  and  then 
back  again,  telling  his  children  that  this  was  the  best  place 
to  sleep  for  it  was  where  he  always  spent  the  night.  The 
father  had  persevered  to  the  end  and  won  his  place  under 


Phoebe 


195 


the  eaves,  for  now  the  linnets  were  gone;  the  young  had 
left  the  nest  in  the  vine  and  set  out  for  themselves.  It 
took  such  an  amount  of  coaxing  and  scolding  for  the 
father  phoebe  to  get  his  babies  up  to  the  roost,  but  the 
three  were  finally  cuddled  together  on  the  wire.  This 
was  the  father’s  first  choice  for  a home,  and  I imagine 
either  he  or  some  of  his  family  will  return  early  next 
spring  and  take  up  a home  on  the  bracket  under  the  trees 
before  the  linnets  arrive. 


THE  FLYCATCHER  FAMILY 

A little  observation  will  enable  one  to  recognize  the  birds  of  this 
family  from  their  habit  of  perching  on  a fence  or  dead  twig  with  wings  and 
tail  moving  up  and  down,  ready  for  instant  action;  suddenly  the  bird 
dashes  into  the  air,  catching  an  insect  with  a quick  turn  and  a click  of  its 
bill  and  returns  to  its  perch.  The  birds  of  this  family  have  no  elaborate 
song,  only  a harsh  chirp  or  a varying  twitter  or  whistle.  The  bill  is 
broad  and  flattened,  with  bristles  at  the  base.  The  Kingbird  or  Bee- 
martin  is  about  eight  inches  long  while  the  Wood  Pewee  is  six  and  the 
Phoebe  about  seven  inches. 

Phoebe  ( Sayornis  phoebe):  Male  and  female,  upper  parts,  olive- 
gray,  darker  on  head;  under  parts,  whitish,  tinged  with  pale  yellow. 
Lives  throughout  eastern  North  America,  where  it  is  common  from 
April  to  October.  Nest  made  of  mud  and  moss,  bracketed  on  the  side 
of  a rock  or  under  a bridge.  Eggs,  from  three  to  six,  pure  white,  some- 
times spotted  with  brown  about  larger  ends. 

Black  Phoebe  ( Sayornis  nigricans):  Male  and  female,  entire  plumage 
black  except  belly,  which  is  white.  Webs  of  outer  tail  feathers,  whitish. 
Habits  same  as  above,  but  resides  on  Pacific  Coast. 


A PAIR  OF  COUSINS— ROBIN  AND 
THRUSH 


XVIII 


A PAIR  OF  COUSINS— ROBIN  AND 
THRUSH 

I KNOW  of  no  other  two  birds  so  near  akin  that  are 
so  opposite  in  character  and  disposition  as  the  Robin 
(. Merula  migratoria  propinqua ) and  the  Thrush  ( Hylo - 
clchla  u slid  at  a) . As  scientists  distinguish  birds  there  is 
not  much  difference  because  both  are  thrushes,  except  that 
the  robin  is  attired  with  much  more  show,  while  the  thrush 
has  a modest  brown  dress.  But  this  is  the  smallest  differ- 
ence. In  other  ways  they  are  distinctive  types.  For  spunk 
and  audacity  the  robin  has  it  over  most  birds.  The 
thrush  has  none  of  this  boldness.  He  flits  around  in  the 
shade  trees  and  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  trying  to  keep 
hidden.  He  sings  from  a thick  clump,  the  robin  from  a 
tree-top.  The  life  of  the  thrush  is  pitched  in  a low  key. 
His  best  song  is  a vesper  hymn  with  a strain  of  sadness 
through  it  all.  The  robin  has  a gayer  disposition;  he  is 
at  his  best  in  the  rollicking  song  of  the  morning. 

Both  birds  nest  about  my  home,  the  robin  in  the  or- 
chard, the  thrush  in  the  fir  thicket  beyond.  When  I 
looked  into  the  nest  of  the  robin  it  made  the  owners 
beside  themselves  with  anger.  They  dashed  at  me. 
“ Help!  Murder!  Get  out  of  here  or  we’ll  knock  your 
head  off!  ” they  yelled.  When  I crawled  into  the  thicket 
where  the  thrush  had  her  home  she  was  more  offended 

199 


200 


American  Birds 


than  frightened.  She  held  her  dignity  and  looked  at  me 
with  an  air  that  said,  “This  is  my  home:  you  are 
intruding.” 

Of  the  eight  hundred  species  of  North  American 
birds,  the  robin  is  the  most  widely  known.  No  matter 
how  limited  a boy  or  girl’s  knowledge  is  about  birds, 
he  knows  the  robin  when  it  arrives  in  the  spring  and  begins 
to  hunt  worms  on  the  lawn. 

Perhaps  no  bird  is  so  closely  associated  with  our  every- 
day life  as  the  robin,  lie  takes  his  chances  with  the  cats 
about  the  dooryard.  Pie  is  a rural  life  bird,  but  he  doesn’t 
like  the  primitive  forest.  Pie  can  get  better  nest  building 
material  and  better  food  wherever  man  is,  and  he  stays 
near  by  some  house.  He  likes  a lawn  in  the  springtime, 
for  it  always  holds  a good  supply  of  worms.  Give  a 
robin  plenty  of  lawn  in  the  spring  and  a good  cherry 
orchard  in  the  summer  and  he  asks  for  nothing  else,  and 
you  can’t  get  rid  of  him.  And  he  makes  a picture  in 
the  field.  How  his  ruddy  breast  shows  against  the  green ! 
He  hops  along  for  a few  steps,  and  suddenly  stands  erect 
and  still,  as  if  thinking.  Then  his  head  turns  to  one  side 
in  a pert  way  as  he  examines  the  ground  and  listens. 
Down  into  the  earth  goes  his  bill,  and  he  sits  back  and 
jerks  a long  worm  from  its  hole. 

As  the  robin  is  widely  known  because  of  his  distinctive 
size,  dress,  and  habits,  so  the  thrush  is  known  for  his  sing- 
ing. “ If  we  take  the  quality  of  melody  as  the  test,”  says 
John  Burroughs,  “ the  wood  thrush,  the  hermit  thrush, 
and  the  veery  thrush  stand  at  the  head  of  our  list  of 
songsters.”  Every  bird  lover  has  his  favorite  songster, 
and  it  is  often  difficult  to  say  whether  the  song  of  one 


A Pair  of  Cousins — Robin  and  Thrush  201 


bird  surpasses  that  of  another,  because  bird  songs  are 
largely  matters  of  association  and  suggestion.  At  specific 
times  and  places,  or  under  certain  mental  feelings  or  emo- 
tions, I have  felt  bird  music  sink  into  my  memory  to  re- 
main a lasting  pleasure.  I can  never  forget  the  song  of 
a winter  wren  I heard  in  the  very  heart  of  the  forest. 
I had  tramped  the  whole  day  along  the  lonely  trail,  and 
the  heavy  woods  seemed  so  deserted  of  birds  that  I had 
heard  the  call  notes  of  only  two  or  three  rare  species.  I 
dropped  down  to  rest  a few  moments  and  was  greeted 
by  a sprightly  but  plaintive  little  song,  that  seemed  almost 
lost  in  the  primeval  solitude  of  the  woods.  It  was  the 
winter  wren. 

Few  songs  have  thrilled  me  more  than  the  carolling 
of  the  robin  at  sunrise  on  a crisp  spring  morning  as  I 
have  set  out  for  a walk  in  the  woods.  Yet  this  is  not 
my  favorite  song.  The  thrush  has  a richer,  fuller  mel- 
ody. His  song  is  one  that  ranges  the  whole  scale  of  pure 
emotion.  And  it  comes  best  about  dusk  from  the  shaded 
canons  or  the  dark,  tree-covered  lawns. 

The  nest  in  the  fir  thicket  beyond  the  orchard  was  a 
typical  thrush  home.  When  I crawled  in  under  the  thick, 
low-hanging  branches  of  the  fir  saplings  I almost  put  my 
hand  in  the  nest.  The  mother  did  not  flush  till  I shook 
the  limb,  and  then  she  slipped  through  the  branches  and 
gave  a low  whistle  that  brought  her  mate.  The  nest  was 
made  of  moss  and  lined  with  leaves.  I have  never  found 
a thrush’s  nest  that  was  not  built  largely  of  moss.  Moss 
is  as  essential  to  the  russet-backed  thrush  as  mud  to  the 
robin  and  lichens  to  the  hummingbird. 

Whenever  I visited  the  thrush’s  nest  I met  both  the 


202 


American  Birds 


father  and  the  mother.  They  flitted  about  the  trees,  watch- 
ing me  in  silence.  They  were  always  shy,  and  to  me  the 
shyness  was  the  truest  indication  of  the  fine  natures  they 
possessed.  They  did  not  relieve  their  feelings  by  a great 
show  and  fuss  as  the  robins  did.  The  robins  were  always 
unnecessarily  fussy  and  noisy.  They  are  of  plebeian  stock; 
the  thrushes  are  real  patricians.  Each  time  the  thrush 
mother  came  with  food  for  her  young  I saw  her  linger  at 
the  nest  edge.  Many  bird  mothers  are  away  as  soon  as 
they  have  fed  their  young,  but  the  thrush  never  failed 
to  examine  her  nestlings,  and  I often  saw  her  sit  for  sev- 
eral minutes  at  a time  looking  at  her  babies  and  caressing 
them  with  a real  mother’s  love. 

There  are  many  tragedies  in  bird  and  animal  life,  but 
we  rarely  come  upon  them.  How  often  do  we  see  a bird 
sick  or  dying?  The  end  is  generally  tragic  and  not  from 
natural  causes.  The  weak  fall  as  prey  to  the  strong,  the 
sick  bird  dies  from  a cat  or  some  other  animal.  One  day 
I was  watching  a pair  of  yellow  warblers  in  the  orchard 
that  were  flitting  about  the  vine-covered  fence.  I think 
they  were  building  a nest  or  just  about  to  build  in  the  vicin- 
ity. The  first  thing  I noticed,  the  male  paused  on  the  fence, 
fluttering  his  wings.  His  mate  flew  down  beside  him.  He 
tried  to  fly  to  a limb  of  a tree  near  by,  but  fell  short  and 
wavered  to  the  ground.  The  wife  was  right  beside  him 
and  chirping  all  the  time.  I went  nearer  for  a closer  view. 
He  lay  flat  on  his  back,  writhing  in  pain.  I stooped  to 
pick  him  up,  for  he  was  dying.  His  wife  was  on  the  fence, 
scarcely  a yard  from  my  hand,  fidgeting  and  calling  to 
him.  He  died  in  my  hand.  I laid  him  back  on  the 
ground;  his  mate  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant,  and  now 


A Pair  of  Cousins — -Robin  and  Thrush  203 

as  speechless  as  I.  She  didn’t  cry;  they  say  birds  can’t 
cry,  but  it  was  sadder  for  all  that.  It  was  dumb  grief. 
She  stayed  about  all  day,  waiting  for  her  mate.  I buried 
him  by  the  fence  where  he  fell,  stricken  by  I know  not 
what. 

Birds  sometimes  meet  with  accidental  death.  I once 
saw  a swallow  fly  against  a telephone  wire  with  such  force 
that  the  bird  was  killed  instantly.  Later  in  the  season, 
after  the  thrushes  were  grown,  I found  the  body  of  a 
thrush  hanging  to  the  barb  of  a wire  fence  down  below  the 
orchard.  The  wire  ran  straight  across  the  top  of  a zigzag 
fence,  and  the  bird,  in  full  flight,  had  just  skimmed  the 
top  of  the  rail  to  go  full  force  into  the  wire  before  it  was 
seen.  The  barb  had  caught  in  the  neck,  and  the  force  had 
swung  the  bird’s  body  over  the  wire  from  below,  locking 
it  in  a death-grip. 

Last  summer  when  I went  out  through  the  orchard 
to  examine  the  trees  and  see  how  many  bird  homes  I could 
find,  I found  many  of  the  same  tenants  back,  but  for 
some  reason  not  as  many  robin  families  as  usual.  I found 
only  seven  robin  nests,  while  these  cherry  trees  generally 
feed  about  a dozen  broods  as  well  as  furnishing  a stamp- 
ing-ground for  all  the  neighboring  robins  half  a mile 
around. 

Two  years  ago  an  old  robin  built  in  an  apple  tree  two 
rows  over  from  the  cherries.  This  year  he  planted  his 
nest  in  the  main  crotch  of  the  best  Royal  Ann  cherry  tree. 
The  minute  I swung  up  into  the  branches  to  get  some 
fruit  I was  pounced  upon  by  two  angry  robins.  In  two 
minutes  they  raised  such  a cry  of  “ Thief!  Thief!  ” that 
all  the  birds  in  the  orchard  were  scolding  me.  It  looked 


204 


American  Birds 


as  if  I were  about  to  lose  my  head  for  taking  my  own 
cherries. 

In  a plum  tree  a short  distance  away  I found  a nest 
that  had  been  vacated  a few  days  before  by  a brood  of 
four  young  robins.  Out  of  this  I picked  twenty-seven 
seeds.  On  the  ground  below  the  nest  were  a whole  hand- 
ful of  pits.  But  no  one  can  begrudge  a few  cherries  in 
payment  for  the  horde  of  insects  and  worms  destroyed  by 
the  birds. 

I was  standing  in  the  back  yard  watching  a robin  that 
came  for  string  to  build  her  nest.  I had  wrapped  a piece 
several  times  about  a limb  to  see  whether  the  bird  would 
use  any  intelligence  in  unwinding  it.  I have  always  been 
skeptical  of  some  of  the  stories  that  have  been  told  of  birds 
reasoning.  For  example,  one  writer  tells  of  an  oriole  that 
took  a piece  of  cloth  and  hung  it  on  a thorn  so  the  thread 
could  be  pulled  out.  When  the  cloth  came  loose,  he  said 
the  bird  refastened  it.  Again,  he  has  the  bird  tying  knots 
in  the  string  to  keep  the  ends  from  fraying  in  the  wind 
or  tying  the  sticks  together  to  make  support  for  the  nest. 
But  these  are  not  bird  actions:  they  were  evolved  out  of 
the  fertile  brain  of  the  writer. 

As  soon  as  the  robin  spied  the  string  I had  placed  in 
the  tree  she  thought  it  good  for  her  nest.  She  lit  on  the 
branch  and  took  it  in  her  bill,  and,  finding  it  caught,  she 
gave  it  a hard  tug.  Twice  she  started  to  fly  away  with  it, 
but  she  pulled  up  with  a sharp  jerk.  She  could  see  and 
reason  no  further  than  the  end  of  the  twine.  Had  she 
unfolded  one  or  two  wraps  about  the  limb,  the  whole 
would  have  come  loose.  Again  and  again  she  took  a try 
at  that  string  with  the  same  success,  until  she  got  it  tangled 


A Pair  of  Cousins — Robin  and  Thrush  205 

about  some  of  the  leaves.  Then  I loosened  it  and  she 
carried  it  away.  Birds  do  not  know  how  to  use  string, 
for  it  is  new  to  them.  They  sometimes  get  tangled  and 
hang  themselves. 

Robins  often  show  very  great  difference  in  the  matter 
of  selecting  a site  for  a nest.  I saw  one  nest  built  on  an 
old  rail  fence  a foot  from  the  ground,  another  in  the  side 
of  an  old  stump,  another  under  a porch,  while  the  great 
majority  of  robins  will  select  a tree  near  a house  and  place 
the  nest  in  a strong  crotch.  The  nest  is  generally  built 
with  coarse  sticks  and  strings  on  the  outside  and  a good 
cup  of  mud  with  an  inner  lining  of  finer  grasses.  Yet  I 
have  sometimes  found  robin  nests  with  hardly  a bit  of 
mud. 

Each  species  of  bird  has  a peculiar  way  of  building 
a nest  that  differs  from  that  of  every  other  species. 
Among  many  of  the  common  birds  one  can  generally  tell 
what  bird  built  the  nest  by  a glance  at  the  exterior  and  the 
position  in  which  it  is  placed.  The  vireos  and  the  orioles 
build  a hanging  nest,  robins  and  jays  and  crows  a bulky 
nest,  the  warblers  build  a neat  deeply-cupped  structure, 
the  grosbeak  has  a thin  framework  that  you  can  see 
through,  and  the  cuckoo  and  the  dove  make  only  a rough 
platform  for  a home. 

Birds  have  a good  deal  of  intelligence  when  it  comes 
to  knowing  their  friends  and  enemies.  One  of  our  neigh- 
bors had  a robin  nesting  in  the  orchard,  and  it  became 
very  fearless.  Whenever  the  cat  went  near  the  nest  the 
robin  darted  at  it  and  clipped  it  on  the  back  of  the  head 
and  ears.  And  the  animal  would  beat  a hasty  retreat,  for 
it  had  been  taught  not  to  catch  birds. 


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American  Birds 


In  another  yard  where  the  blackbirds  nested  in  the 
cypress  trees  they  grew  so  bold  as  to  be  almost  vicious, 
for  they  had  nested  there  so  long  that  they  thought  they 
owned  the  place  and  could  exclude  all  intruders.  If  a 
strange  person  went  near  the  nests  while  they  contained 
young,  the  old  blackbirds  began  to  scold  and  swoop  from 
the  upper  limbs,  giving  the  intruder  a sharp  rap  on  the 
head.  It  furnished  us  lots  of  fun  to  see  a strange  dog 
begin  to  nose  around.  In  an  instant  he  got  a clip  on 
the  ear  and  then  another.  The  birds  struck,  and  were 
away  before  he  could  retaliate.  He  would  retreat, 
and  the  minute  he  turned  his  back  the  birds  were  after 
him,  nipping  his  ears.  The  faster  he  ran,  the  better  the 
chance  for  them  to  strike,  till  they  bustled  him  out  of  the 
yard  and  down  the  street  in  a hurry. 

In  the  spring  and  fall  the  robins  often  assemble  in  a 
large  grove  every  evening  and  roost  together.  I discov- 
ered one  of  these  robin  roosts  at  Berkeley,  California. 
The  robins  assembled  each  evening  in  a large  eucalyptus 
grove  and  spread  out  over  the  country  to  forage  during 
the  day.  This  was  the  last  of  February  and  the  first  of 
March.  Then  the  birds  began  to  go  north.  Later  in  the 
spring  I have  seen  them  do  the  same  thing  when  they 
reach  their  breeding  grounds  in  Oregon.  They  like  a 
community  life. 

One  evening  I went  down  to  the  eucalyptus  grove  to 
count  the  robins.  I went  at  five-thirty,  but  was  not  early 
enough,  for  the  grove  was  then  well  populated  with  rob- 
ins. They  were  coming  in  singly  and  in  small  flocks. 
In  ten  minutes  I counted  over  three  hundred  coming  from 
the  west.  Then  I counted  from  the  south,  and  over  six 


A Pair  of  Cousins — Robin  and  Thrush  207 

hundred  arrived  in  ten  minutes.  They  kept  coming  con- 
tinually from  all  directions  until  a quarter  after  six,  when 
most  of  the  birds  were  back.  The  grove  was  alive  with 
them  just  before  six  o’clock.  They  kept  up  a continual 
clatter,  flying  from  tree  to  tree,  as  if  talking  with  their 
neighbors  over  the  events  of  the  day.  In  the  centre  of 
the  grove,  the  chirping  and  fluttering  were  so  loud  as 
to  shut  off  all  sounds  from  the  outside. 

Many  of  the  robins  came  from  a long  distance,  for 
they  flew  high.  Sometimes  as  I watched  I saw  them 
drop  out  of  the  sky.  They  were  often  directly  above  the 
grove  before  they  seemed  to  see  it.  I saw  the  tiniest 
speck  in  the  blue,  and  it  would  grow  rapidly  larger  until 
the  robin  dropped  into  the  grove.  Sometimes  I saw  the 
birds  fly  clear  past  the  grove  before  they  seemed  to  recog- 
nize the  place;  then  they  would  turn,  fold  their  wings, 
and  drop  headlong.  One  day,  when  it  was  very  windy, 
they  flew  low,  just  over  the  housetops.  Many  would 
come  in,  beating  their  wings  and  going  very  slowly  against 
the  wind,  as  if  all  tired  out. 

For  several  evenings  I tried  to  count  the  number  of 
robins  that  came  into  the  grove.  I estimated  over  six 
thousand  were  sleeping  there  every  night. 

I thought  there  would  be  a grand  chorus  in  the  morn- 
ing when  all  these  birds  awoke,  so  I went  over  before 
daybreak  one  morning.  The  robins  awoke  at  the  first 
indication  of  dawn,  and  they  began  leaving  the  trees  im- 
mediately. There  were  no  songs,  only  a few  robin  calls 
as  the  birds  departed  in  singles  and  in  small  flocks,  as  they 
had  come  the  evening  before.  And  by  five-thirty  the  grove 
was  vacant  again. 


2o8 


American  Birds 


THE  THRUSH  FAMILY 

This  family  contains  the  best  of  our  American  song-birds.  The 
colors  are  generally  brown,  the  breast  speckled,  especially  in  young 
plumage.  The  thrushes  have  moderately  sharp  and  slender  bills.  They 
live  on  insects,  berries,  and  fruit.  Common  throughout  the  woodland 
parts  of  our  country.  The  robin  is  about  ten  inches  in  length,  while  the 
wood  thrush  is  two  inches  shorter. 

American  Robin  ( Merula  migratona ):  Male,  above,  olive-gray;  head, 
wings,  and  tail,  blackish;  throat,  black,  streaked  with  white;  breast,  brick- 
red;  white  eyelids.  Female,  paler  throughout.  Common  through  east- 
ern United  States,  where  some  stay  all  year;  migrating  flocks  come  in 
March  and  leave  in  October  and  November.  Nest  in  crotch  of  tree 
generally,  made  of  sticks  and  plastered  with  mud.  Eggs,  four  in  num- 
ber, greenish-blue,  unspotted. 

Western  Robin  ( Merula  migratona  propinqua ):  Name  applied  to 
species  on  Pacific  Coast,  but  bird  is  not  distinguishable  from  above. 

Wood  Thrush  ( Hyloctchla  mustelina ):  Male  and  female,  head  and 
back  of  neck,  rusty  or  golden-brown,  fading  to  olive  on  the  rump  and 
tail;  under  parts,  white,  sprinkled  with  dark  brown  spots.  Lives  in  the 
states  north  of  Virginia,  Kentucky,  and  Kansas,  where  it  stays  from 
early  May  to  October.  Nests  in  low  trees  and  bushes.  Eggs,  four  in 
number  and  like  the  robin  but  smaller. 

Wilson’s  Thrush  (Veery)  and  Olive-backed  Thrush,  somewhat  like 
the  above  in  looks  and  habits;  may  be  found  throughout  eastern  United 
States. 

Russet-backed  Thrush  (H ylocichla  ustulata):  Male  and  female, 
above,  olive  brown;  breast,  light  colored  with  dark  spots  like  the  above 
species.  Lives  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 


GULL  HABITS 


XIX 


GULL  HABITS 

EVERY  fall  when  the  waves  begin  to  beat  heavily 
along  the  sea-shore,  a white-winged  fleet  sails  into 
the  rivers  and  bays  to  winter.  When  most  of  the  other 
flocks  have  gone  to  the  southland,  this  feathered  fleet 
skims  about  the  wharf-lined  water  front.  These  are  the 
Gulls,  and  they  add  life  to  the  landscape  as  they  float  and 
sail  about,  just  as  the  white-sailed  boats  of  the  summer 
skim  about  the  waters  of  the  inland  harbors. 

The  gull  comes  not  for  pleasure  alone,  he  comes  be- 
cause it  is  easier  to  find  a living  about  the  city  than  on  the 
open  sea.  He  pays  for  his  existence  in  the  amount  of 
garbage  he  picks  up.  He  skirmishes  the  river  for  dead 
fish,  putrid  flesh,  and  waste  stuff  of  every  kind.  If  his 
food  supply  runs  low  on  the  river,  he  hunts  overland.  If 
the  gulls  are  fed  along  the  water  front,  they  become  very 
tame,  and  return  regularly  every7  day  for  their  dinner. 

The  gulls  are  quick  to  learn  that  they  are  protected 
about  the  harbors,  and  they  become  quite  fearless  in  their 
search  for  food.  They  will  often  come  almost  within 
arm’s  reach,  yet  these  same  birds  are  likely  to  be  very7  wild 
when  they  are  not  in  the  harbor  limits,  where  the  strict 
regulations  protect  them.  Only  a few  years  ago  the  gulls 
were  allowed  to  be  killed  without  limit,  but  now’  they 
are  protected  under  the  different  state  game  laws.  When- 

21 1 


2 I 2 


American  Birds 


ever  a gull  is  shot  and  falls  to  the  water  the  other  gulls 
crowd  about  either  through  curiosity  or  sympathy,  and 
for  several  moments  they  will  hover  over  a fallen  comrade. 
Hunters  took  advantage  of  this  trait,  and  often  large  num- 
bers of  gulls  were  slaughtered  wantonly  or  for  their 
plumage,  which  was  used  for  millinery  purposes. 

One  summer  we  visited  the  native  haunts  of  the  gulls 
and  climbed  about  their  homes  on  some  of  the  rock  islands 
off  the  Pacific  coast.  We  found  them  even  more  pictur- 
esque here,  as  they  flashed  their  white  wings  against  the 
rough  brown  rock,  than  they  are  about  the  bays  and  rivers. 
We  climbed  the  rocky  slopes  to  the  crevices  where  these 
birds  had  carried  a few  handfuls  of  grass  for  nests.  We 
saw  them  building  on  almost  every  suitable  table  ledge. 
But  the  largest  number  of  nests  were  scattered  about  the 
green  slopes  on  the  top  of  the  rock.  Here  each  gull 
scratched  out  a little  hollow  and  lined  it  with  dry  grasses. 
Two  or  three  eggs  of  greenish  hue,  blotched  with  brown, 
in  each  nest,  were  so  closely  matched  with  the  green  and 
dry  grasses  that  we  had  to  watch  at  every  step  to  keep 
from  trea’ding  on  them. 

Later  we  found  the  top  of  the  rock  fairly  alive  with 
mottled-gray  sea-gull  chicks.  A pair  of  these  chaps  are 
about  as  interesting  as  anything  I’ve  seen  in  the  bird 
line.  They  show  little  fear,  but  there  is  generally  a look 
of  surprise  in  their  eyes  when  you  stoop  to  pick  them  up. 
These  young  gulls  retain  their  mottled  dress  until  after  the 
first  year.  The  snow-white  breast  and  pearl-gray  coat  are 
only  worn  by  the  more  mature  birds.  The  brownish-look- 
ing fellows  perched  along  the  docks  of  the  city  are  not  a 
different  species;  they  are  immature  gulls. 


Gull  Habits 


213 


About  the  rock  where  the  gulls  lived  we  had  a splen- 
did opportunity  to  study  the  home  life  of  these  birds. 
We  soon  discovered  that  the  greatest  anxiety  of  the  pa- 
rents seemed  to  be  to  keep  their  children  crouching  low  in 
the  nest,  where  they  thought  they  would  escape  observa- 
tion, and  would  not  run  away  and  get  lost  among  so  many 
neighbors.  I saw  one  young  gull  start  to  run  off  through 
the  grass,  but  he  hadn’t  gone  two  yards  before  the  mother 
dove  at  him  with  a blow  that  sent  him  rolling.  He  got 
up  dazed  and  started  off  in  a new  direction  but  she  rapped 
him  again  on  the  head  till  he  was  glad  to  crouch  down 
and  lie  hidden.  It  seemed  also  to  be  the  duty  of  the 
parents  to  beat  their  neighbors’  children  if  they  didn’t  stay 
at  home,  for  each  mother  recognized  her  own  chicks 
largely  by  location. 

He  who  would  study  the  art  of  aerial  navigation, 
would  do  well  to  watch  the  gull’s  flight.  I have  often 
looked  at  these  birds  as  they  hang  in  the  air,  or  move 
straight  up  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  in  the  rear  of  one  of 
the  ocean  steamboats.  They  poise,  resting  apparently  mo- 
tionless on  outstretched  wing.  It  is  a difficult  feat.  A 
small  bird  cannot  do  it.  A sparrow  hawk  can  do  it  only 
by  the  rapid  beating  of  his  wings.  The  gull  seems  to  hang 
perfectly  still,  yet  there  is  never  an  instant  when  the  wings 
and  tail  are  not  constantly  adjusted  to  meet  the  different 
air  currents,  just  as  in  shooting  the  rapids  in  a canoe  the 
paddle  must  be  adjusted  every  moment  to  meet  the  differ- 
ent eddies,  currents,  and  whirlpools,  which  are  never  the 
same  at  two  different  instants.  These  gulls  are  complete 
masters  of  the  air.  A sail-boat  can  only  tack  against 
the  wind.  A gull,  by  the  perfect  adjustment  of  his  body, 


214 


American  Birds 


without  a single  flap  of  the  wings,  makes  rapid  headway 
straight  against  the  wind.  I’ve  seen  one  retain  perfect 
poise  and  at  the  same  time  reach  forward  with  his  foot  and 
scratch  an  ear. 

The  gulls  are  more  common  along  the  Pacific  Coast 
than  along  the  Atlantic.  All  through  the  West  the  gull 
is  a versatile  bird,  for  although  he  is  born  for  the  water, 
he  seems  to  be  as  much  at  home  hunting  about  the  fields- 
as  on  the  ocean.  In  Utah  the  gulls  that  nest  about  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  fly  all  through  the  surrounding  coun- 
try and  visit  the  beet  fields,  where  they  catch  crickets, 
grasshoppers,  and  cutworms.  Mice  are  very  plentiful 
in  the  alfalfa  fields,  and  when  the  land  is  irrigated  and 
the  water  drives  these  pests  from  their  holes  the  gulls 
are  always  on  hand  and  snap  them  up  as  soon  as  they 
appear.  The  gulls  are  sacred  in  Utah;  they  are  of  so 
much  value  to  the  farmers  that  they  are  protected  in 
every  way. 

In  southern  California  and  Oregon  I have  watched 
flocks  of  gulls  leave  the  ocean  and  rivers  at  daybreak 
every  morning  and  sail  inland  for  miles,  where  they  skir- 
mish about  the  country  and  hunt  a living  for  themselves. 
I have  watched  a flock  of  them  follow  the  plough  all  day 
long,  just  as  the  blackbirds  do,  fighting  at  the  farmer’s 
heels  for  angleworms.  Others  rummage  daily  about  the 
pig-pens  and  gorge  on  the  offal  that  is  thrown  out  from 
the  slaughter-houses.  But  I have  never  seen  the  gulls 
spend  the  night  about  these  places.  Toward  evening  they 
begin  to  collect  in  bands  and  sail  back  to  the  ocean,  where 
they  can  bathe  and  sleep.  If  any  bird  is  useful  to  man, 
the  gull  is  certainly  of  great  economic  importance  as  a 


Gull  Habits 


21 5 

scavenger;  three  of  them  are  equal  to  a buzzard,  and  ten 
equal  to  a pig. 

In  another  way  the  gull  shows  his  quickness  to  take 
advantage  of  opportunity.  In  southern  California,  where 
the  gulls  and  pelicans  feed  together  in  the  bays,  the  gull 
is  a parasite,  living  on  the  labor  of  the  pelican.  Although 
heavy  and  clumsy  in  shape,  the  pelican  is  as  expert  as  the 
kingfisher  at  diving.  From  a height  of  thirty  or  forty 
feet,  he  drops  like  a plummet  into  a school  of  small  fish 
and  rises  to  the  surface  with  pouch  filled  with  fish  and 
water.  As  the  diver  stretches  his  neck  and  draws  his  bill 
straight  up,  the  water  runs  out  and  the  fish  are  left.  The 
head  is  thrown  back,  and  the  whole  catch  is  swallowed  at 
one  gulp.  But  the  pelican  does  not  fish  for  himself  alone, 
for  he  is  always  followed  by  one  or  more  thieving  gulls. 

One  day,  while  standing  on  a wharf,  I saw  a brown 
pelican  flapping  along  wTith  a pair  of  gulls  a fewr  feet 
behind.  A moment  later  the  big  bird  spied  a fish,  for  with 
a back  stroke  of  his  wing  he  turned  to  dive.  He  gath- 
ered speed  as  he  went,  and  with  wings  partly  closed  and 
rigid  he  hit  the  water  with  a resounding  splash.  The 
lower  mandible  of  his  bill  contracted  and  opened  his  pouch 
that  held  as  much  water  as  the  weight  of  his  body.  He 
came  to  the  surface  and  was  in  a helpless  condition  till  the 
water  ran  out,  and  at  this  moment  he  was  pounced  upon 
by  the  swift-moving  gulls,  who  snatched  the  fish  and  were 
away  before  the  slow  pelican  could  retaliate. 

At  another  time  I saw  a band  of  a dozen  pelicans  fol- 
lowing a school  of  fish.  They  rose  from  the  surface, 
swung  around  till  about  twenty  feet  above,  and  two  or 
three  of  them  dropped  into  the  water  at  a time.  A bevy 


American  Birds 


2 1 6 

of  twenty  gulls  were  fluttering  around  to  pounce  upon 
every  pelican  that  dove.  The  instant  one  disappeared  and 
came  up  with  fish  he  was  surrounded  by  a bunch  of  gulls, 
each  screaming  to  get  a nose  in  the  pelican’s  big  fish  bag. 

We  were  interested  one  winter  in  studying  the  great 
Hocks  of  gulls  that  live  about  San  Francisco  Bay.  Every 
morning  at  eight  o’clock  the  garbage  is  emptied  at  the 
long  dock  of  the  navy  training  station.  The  gulls  about 
the  neighborhood  know  this  as  an  ordinary  laborer  knows 
the  lunch  hour.  They  flock  around  by  the  thousands.  It 
looks  as  if  some  one  had  poked  a stick  into  a hive  of  big 
feathered  bees  as  the  birds  flutter  about  and  fight  for  par- 
ticles of  food. 

Protection  has  made  these  birds  very  tame.  “ Old 
Whitey  ” used  to  be  known  to  every  sailor  on  the  Pensa- 
cola training-ship,  and  he  showed  up  for  meals  as  regularly 
as  the  bugle  blew.  He  had  his  own  perch  on  the  bowsprit, 
and  took  bread  or  meat  from  the  hand  like  any  pet.  There 
were  always  several  others  riding  the  anchor  chain,  wait- 
ing for  scraps  from  the  table.  Many  of  the  birds  were 
very  expert  at  catching  morsels  in  the  air,  as  they  were 
often  fed  by  the  sailors.  I have  often  seen  them  take  a 
crust  of  bread  in  mid-air,  rarely  missing  a catch. 

The  minute  a new  food  supply  is  found  anywhere 
about  the  bay,  the  news  spreads  in  the  gull  world  by  wire- 
less telegraph.  A flock  of  half  a dozen  gulls  will  increase 
to  as  many  hundred  in  an  hour  or  so.  You  can’t  see  just 
where  they  come  from,  but  they  come.  When  the  steam- 
dredger  started  to  open  the  channel  of  the  Oakland  es- 
tuary a whole  flock  of  gulls  sailed  in  and  settled  at  the 
mouth  of  the  long  pipe,  which  was  belching  forth  a mix- 


Gull  Habits 


217 


ture  of  mud,  water,  rocks,  and  clams.  It  was  as  bad  as 
a crowd  of  a thousand  noisy  newsboys.  Such  a shoving, 
clambering,  flapping,  grabbing ! Every  clam  was  gobbled 
up  the  minute  it  struck  ground. 

I have  often  seen  the  western  herring  gull  act  in 
ways  that  speak  well  for  his  sagacity.  On  several  occa- 
sions I watched  him  open  clams  and  mussels.  His  bill  is 
unfitted  for  crushing  the  hard  shell.  I saw  one  gull  grasp 
a clam  in  his  bill,  rise  to  a height  of  thirty  feet,  and  drop 
it  to  the  hard  sand  and  gravel  below.  He  followed  it  up 
closely,  but  it  didn’t  break.  He  repeated  the  same  per- 
formance over  fifteen  times  before  he  was  successful. 

THE  GULL  FAMILY 

The  Gul!  belongs  to  the  family  of  long-winged  swimmers.  They 
are  experts  on  the  wing  and  they  swim  lightly  on  the  water.  The  gulls 
are  common  and  easily  recognized  along  the  sea-coasts.  They  live  on 
fish  and  refuse  matter  picked  up  about  the  harbors. 

Herring  Gull  ( Larus  argentatus ):  Male  and  female,  alike;  back,  deli- 
cate pearl-gray;  head,  neck,  under  parts  and  tail  are  pure  white.  In  win- 
ter, the  head  and  neck  are  streaked  with  gray;  bill,  yellow  with  red  spot 
near  end  of  lower  mandible.  Length,  about  twenty-five  inches.  Found 
throughout  North  America;  winters  about  the  harbors  and  retires  to 
the  rocks  off  the  coast  and  to  inland  lakes  to  breed.  Nest  is  a hollow 
on  the  ground,  lined  with  grass.  Eggs,  two  or  three,  from  olive-green 
to  brown,  irregularly  streaked  and  dotted  with  dark  brown  and  blackish. 

Western  Gull  ( Larus  occidentalis ):  Same  as  above,  except  the  coat 
is  slightly  darker  in  color.  Found  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 


IN  A HERON  VILLAGE 


XX 


IN  A HERON  VILLAGE 

OF  all  the  sights  and  feelings  of  a bird  lover,  the  most 
lasting,  perhaps,  is  when  he  first  steps  from  the 
quieter  wood  scenes  and  suddenly  emerges  into  the  very 
heart  of  a busy  bird  town.  The  eyes  pop  as  wide  and  the 
pulse  beats  as  fast  as  that  of  a backwoods  boy  when  he 
first  walks  into  the  very  midst  of  a modern  three-ringed 
circus  in  full  swing. 

Fifteen  miles  below  my  home  in  the  heart  of  the  fir 
forest  is  a village  of  two  hundred  houses.  It  has  an  area 
of  about  three  acres.  Every  home  is  a sky-scraper.  Not 
a single  house  is  less  than  a hundred  and  thirty  feet  up,  and 
some  are  a hundred  and  sixty  feet  high.  The  inhabitants 
are  feathered  fishers.  They  hunt  the  waterways  of  the 
Columbia  and  the  Willamette  for  miles.  Each  owns  his 
own  claim,  and  there’s  never  a dispute  as  to  possession. 

It  takes  the  biggest  reserve  of  nerve  and  muscle  to 
reach  this  village,  but  one  may  sit  on  the  wooded  hillside 
far  below  and  watch  life  there  in  full  swing.  From  two 
to  five  brush-heap  houses,  the  size  of  a wash-tub,  are  care- 
fully balanced  and  securely  fastened  in  the  top  limbs  of 
each  tree.  Gaunt,  long-legged  citizens  stand  about  the 
airy  doorways  and  gossip  in  hoarse  croaks.  Residents  are 
continually  coming  and  going,  some  flapping  in  from  the 
feeding-ground  with  craws  full  of  fish  and  frogs,  others 


221 


222 


American  Birds 


sweeping  down  the  avenues  between  the  pointed  firs  with 
a departing  guttural  squawk. 

One  of  the  most  risky  and  perilous  pieces  of  work 
ever  done  in  the  tree-top  was  accomplished  here  in  the 
tall  firs  in  getting  the  nest  and  eggs  of  the  Great  Blue 
Heron  ( Ardea  hcrodias) . T he  photographer  had  se- 
lected the  most  “ climbable-looking  ” stronghold  in  the 
heronry,  where  the  nearest  nest  was  a hundred  and  thirty 
feet  up.  But  after  the  long,  arduous  ascent,  he  found  that 
both  nests  contained  newly  hatched  birds.  Just  fifteen 
feet  away  in  the  branches  of  an  adjoining  tree  was  a nest 
containing  four  eggs.  To  get  this,  the  photographer 
strapped  himself  carefully  in  the  branches  and  wrapped 
his  legs  about  the  trunk.  With  a rope  he  lassoed  the 
broken  end  of  a limb  on  the  adjoining  tree,  and,  by  slip- 
ping the  cord  back  and  forth,  worked  the  rope  up  to  the 
trunk.  A slow,  steady  pull  and  the  tops  of  the  trees 
bent  closer  together.  The  tension  became  stronger  and 
stronger  between  the  two  trees,  until  at  four  feet  it 
looked  like  a huge  catapult  that  might  suddenly  be 
sprung  and  shoot  the  climber  backward  into  space.  In 
another  instant  an  aerial  bridge  was  formed  in  the  tree- 
top  while  the  photographer  secured  his  prize. 

The  heronries  in  the  Oregon  forests  are  pretty  well 
protected  from  the  raids  of  a bird-photographer  by  rea- 
son of  their  great  height  from  the  ground.  For  several 
years  we  hunted  for  a colony  of  these  birds,  where  a good 
series  of  photographs  could  be  taken.  We  never  found 
one  in  Oregon,  but  we  did  discover  one  in  California  last 
summer. 

Down  in  the  swamp  regions  at  the  lower  end  of  San 


In  a Heron  Village 


223 


Francisco  Bay  is  a narrow  wooded  belt  reaching  out  about 
a mile,  and  it  is  about  two  hundred  yards  in  width.  When 
we  approached  this  thicket  we  saw  the  trees  were  well 
loaded  with  nests.  We  skirted  the  edge  of  the  belt,  look- 
ing for  an  entrance,  but  to  our  surprise  each  place  we  tried 
was  barred  with  a perfect  mass  of  tangled  bushes  and 
trees.  We  crawled  through  in  one  place  for  a few  feet, 
but  over  and  through  all  was  a network  of  poison  oak  and 
blackberry  that  we  could  not  penetrate.  There  was  not 
the  sign  of  a path.  After  two  hours  we  went  to  the  point 
opposite  the  largest  tree  and  decided  to  push  and  cut 
our  way  through.  The  first  few  yards  we  crawled  on 
our  hands  and  knees,  pushing  our  cameras  or  dragging 
them  behind.  Unable  to  crawl  further  we  had  to  clear 
a way  and  climb  a ten-foot  brush-heap.  For  a few  yards 
we  ducked  under  and  wiggled  along  in  the  bed  of  a ditch 
in  the  mire  to  our  knees.  I never  saw  such  a tangled  mass 
of  brush.  Fallen  limbs  and  trees  of  alder,  swamp-maple 
and  willow  were  interlaced  with  blackberry  brier,  poison 
oak,  and  the  rankest  growth  of  nettles.  All  the  while 
we  were  assailed  by  an  increasing  mob  of  starving  mos- 
quitoes that  went  raving  mad  at  the  taste  of  blood.  We 
pushed  on,  straining,  sweating,  crawling,  and  climbing 
for  a hundred  yards  that  seemed  more  like  a mile. 

We  forgot  it  all  the  minute  we  stood  under  the  largest 
sycamore.  It  was  seven  feet  thick  at  the  base  and  difficult 
to  climb.  But  this  was  the  centre  of  business  activity  in 
the  heron  village.  The  monster  was  a hundred  and  twenty 
feet  high,  and  had  a spread  of  limbs  equal  to  its  height. 
In  this  single  tree  we  counted  forty-one  blue  heron  nests 
and  twenty-eight  Night  Heron  ( Nycticorax  nycticorax 


224 


American  Birds 


navius)  nests;  sixty-nine  nests  in  one  tree.  In  another 
tree  were  seventeen  of  the  larger  nests  and  twenty-eight 
of  the  smaller. 

The  great  blue  heron  or  “ crane  ” is  one  of  the 
picturesque  sights  of  every  fish-pond  and  along  the  bank 
of  every  river  and  lake  in  the  country.  I look  for  him 
along  the  shallow  sand-bars  and  sloping  banks,  as  I look 
for  the  background  of  green  trees.  He  is  always  the 
solitary  fisher.  He  is  the  bit  of  life  that  draws  the  whole 
to  a focus.  Watch  him,  and  he  stands  as  motionless  as  a 
stick.  He  is  patient.  A minnow  or  frog  swims  past,  and 
there  is  a lightning  flash  of  that  pointed  bill  as  he  pins 
him  a foot  below  the  surface.  Disturb  him  and  he  de- 
liberately spreads  a pair  of  wings  that  fan  six  feet  of  air 
and  dangles  his  long  legs  to  the  next  stand  just  out  of 
range. 

Nature  has  built  the  heron  in  an  extremely  practical 
way.  She  dressed  him  in  colors  of  sky  and  water.  She 
did  not  plant  his  eyes  in  the  top  of  his  head  as  she  did 
the  woodcock,  because  he  is  not  likely  to  be  injured  by 
enemies  from  above ; but  she  put  them  right  on  the  lower 
sloping  side  of  his  head  so  he  could  look  straight  down 
at  his  feet  without  the  slightest  side  turn.  She  let  his  legs 
grow  too  long  for  perching  conveniently  on  a tree — just 
so  he  could  wade  in  deep  enough  to  fish.  She  gave  him 
a dagger-shaped  bill  at  the  end  of  a neck  that  was  both 
long  enough  to  reach  bottom  as  well  as  to  keep  his  eyes 
high  above  water,  so  he  could  see  and  aim  correctly  at 
the  creature  below  the  surface. 

It  is  said  that  occasionally  a pair  of  great  blue  herons 
will  build  an  isolated  nest,  but  I never  found  one.  The 


In  a Heron  Village 


225 


heron  likes  a remote  fishing  preserve  of  his  own,  but  he 
loves  to  live  in  a small  village  community,  to  which  he  can 
return  each  evening  and  enjoy  the  social  life  among  his 
neighbors  and  dwell  in  mutual  protection. 

He  is  a remarkable  bird  in  adapting  himself  to  cir- 
cumstances. In  a bird  of  such  long  legs  and  of  such  pro- 
portions, one  would  naturally  think  his  nesting  place  would 
be  on  the  ground.  In  the  lake  region  of  southern  Oregon 
we  did  find  the  great  blue  heron  nesting  on  the  ground, 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  gulls,  cormorants,  pelicans,  and 
terns.  But  in  other  portions  of  our  country  a colony  of 
these  same  birds  will  select  the  tallest  firs,  deep  back  in 
the  forest,  or  the  sycamores,  willows,  and  maples  in  the 
midst  of  a swamp. 

We  made  the  first  trip  to  the  heronry  on  April  2 1st,  and 
found  that  most  of  the  nests  contained  eggs.  There  were 
about  seven  hundred  nests  in  the  whole  colony,  of  which 
the  larger  number  were  black-crowned  night  herons’. 
The  great  blues  and  the  night  herons  occupied  the  same 
trees,  nesting  side  by  side.  The  larger  nests  were  built 
almost  entirely  in  the  tops  of  the  sycamores,  while  the 
night  herons  set  their  platform  nests  at  the  very  upturned 
tips  of  the  sycamore  limbs  and  in  the  lower  surrounding 
willows  and  alders. 

When  I first  climbed  in  among  the  nests  of  a smaller 
tree  with  my  camera,  it  sounded  as  if  I were  in  the  midst 
of  a gigantic  hen-house.  Some  of  the  birds  were  clucking 
over  their  eggs  that  were  soon  to  be  hatched;  others  were 
cackling  over  newly  laid  eggs  and  squawking  at  being  dis- 
turbed; others  were  wrangling  and  squabbling,  so  that 
there  was  a continual  clattering  fuss  above  which  one  had 


22.6 


American  Birds 


to  yell  his  loudest  to  be  heard.  I sat  astraddle  a limb 
with  my  note-book  in  hand.  About  me,  seemingly  almost 
within  reach,  I counted  thirty-six  sets  of  blue  eggs.  I was 
high  above  the  tops  of  the  alders  and  willows.  Set  all 
about  below  in  the  background  of  green  were  the  plat- 
forms, each  holding  several  eggs  of  blue.  The  trees  were 
dotted  in  every  direction.  I counted  over  four  hundred 
eggs  in  sight. 

The  black-crowned  night  heron  is  a very  different 
looking  bird  from  the  great  blue.  It  has  a shiny  black 
patch  on  the  top  of  the  head,  and  a gray  body  with  a black 
back.  The  short  but  thick  neck  and  short  legs  are  just  the 
opposite  of  the  blue  heron.  The  night  heron,  as  the 
name  signifies,  is  not  seen  or  heard  much  during  the  day 
unless  you  visit  one  of  their  colonies,  which  is  placed  gen- 
erally in  some  almost  inaccessible  swamp.  As  long  as 
these  birds  can  find  some  protected  place  to  nest  they 
are  sure  to  remain  in  spite  of  our  civilization,  for  a colony 
of  several  hundred  of  them  still  nest  in  the  maples  of  a 
dense  swamp  only  a few  miles  from  New  York  City. 

Great  blue  herons  perched  lazily  in  the  tops  of  the 
trees.  Looking  in  one  direction  I counted  over  a hundred 
of  them.  They  were  sailing  in  continually  and  departing. 
The  night  herons  fluttered  about  in  a jerky,  labored 
flight,  lighting  in  the  willows  and  hovering  over  their 
nests. 

A night  heron’s  or,  as  often  called,  a “ squawk’s  ” nest 
looks  to  me  like  a mere  botch.  Some  of  them  are  not  hol- 
lowed in  the  least,  but  just  rough  platforms.  In  a wind 
the  eggs  would  roll  off  if  the  mother  did  not  sit  to  hold 
them  on.  There  is  not  much  trouble  after  the  eggs  are 


In  a Heron  Village 


227 


hatched,  for  the  youngsters  seem  to  kick  themselves  loose 
from  the  shell  with  one  foot,  while  they  wrap  the  long 
angular  toes  of  the  other  about  the  nearest  twig. 

On  our  first  trip  to  the  heronry,  when  the  nests  con- 
tained eggs,  we  selected  one  or  two  of  the  best  and  most 
available  to  get  a good  series  of  pictures  showing  the 
growth  of  the  young.  Most  all  the  night  heron  nests 
contained  four  eggs.  The  eggs  seemed  to  hatch  in  regular 
order  about  two  days  apart.  When  we  photographed  the 
same  nest  later  we  found  it  held  three  frowzy-headed 
youngsters  and  one  egg.  On  our  third  trip,  the  growth, 
both  in  size  and  ugliness,  was  quite  apparent.  On  our 
next  trip  we  found  the  nest  deserted. 

The  next  time  I sat  in  the  tree-top  the  place  sounded 
more  like  a big  duck  ranch.  Above  all  the  squawks  of 
the  parents  there  was  a steady  quacking  clatter  of  the  hun- 
dreds of  young  herons,  that  never  ceased.  The  sound  grew 
more  intense  in  spots,  as  here  and  there  a mother  swept 
in  from  the  feeding-ground  and  fed  her  children.  As  I 
sat  watching,  an  old  blue  heron  sailed  in  and  lit  on  a 
branch  above  her  nest  in  the  adjoining  tree.  The  three 
youngsters  twisted  themselves  into  joyful  shapes  as  the 
mother  stepped  awkwardly  along  the  limb.  Each  reached 
up  in  full  height  to  grasp  her  long  bill.  She  sat  on  the 
nest,  calmly  looking  about.  The  young  continued  to  catch 
her  long  beak  and  pull  it  part  way  down,  trying  to  make 
her  feed  them.  When  she  got  ready  she  disgorged  a mess 
of  partially  digested  fish  down  the  throat  of  each  nestling 
and  left  as  leisurely  as  she  came.  In  another  case  where 
the  young  were  older,  I saw  the  mother  bird  disgorge  into 
the  nest.  The  mass  of  undigested  fish  in  her  craw  seemed 


228 


American  Birds 


to  form  into  small  portions  and  come  up  as  the  cud  of  a 
cow  does,  and  each  youngster  pitched  into  the  meal  with 
a vigor  and  energy  that  would  have  amazed  a litter  of 
young  pigs. 

When  you  climb  anywhere  near  a nest  after  the  young 
birds  have  had  a good  meal,  they  will  begin  to  “ unswal- 
low ” as  fast  as  they  have  gobbled  it  down.  On  account 
of  this  habit,  especially  common  among  night  herons,  we 
found  it  always  safe  to  keep  out  of  the  way  as  much  as 
possible,  or  at  least  not  approach  a nest  full  of  young 
birds  from  below. 

In  order  to  study  the  life  of  the  herons  and  get  some 
pictures  early  in  the  morning  before  the  wind  sprung  up 
so  strong  that  we  could  hardly  hold  ourselves  in  the  tree- 
top,  which  it  had  a habit  of  doing  at  that  season  of  the 
year,  we  camped  at  the  heronry  all  one  night.  At  the 
south  end  of  the  heron  jungle  is  a hay-field,  where  we  took 
up  our  quarters.  We  had  no  trouble  in  keeping  awake 
most  of  the  night  to  study  heron  habits.  The  blue  herons 
as  well  as  the  squawks,  or  night  herons,  seemed  to  keep 
busy  most  of  the  night.  As  some  one  has  said,  it  sounded 
as  if  several  hundred  Indians  were  trying  to  throttle  each 
other.  Then  the  mosquitoes  and  frogs  were  more  active 
after  dark.  We  crawled  into  a haycock  and  covered  our- 
selves up,  as  much  to  get  rid  of  bloodthirsty  insects  as 
to  keep  warm.  At  daylight  we  felt  as  much  comfort  in 
crawling  out  to  get  rid  of  burrs  and  stickers  as  we  had  the 
night  before  in  crawling  in  to  get  away  from  mosquitoes. 

A young  night  heron  is  well  adapted  to  climbing  from 
limb  to  limb  by  reason  of  his  long  angling  toes  and  the 
ability  to  hook  his  neck  or  bill  over  a limb  and  draw  him- 


In  a Heron  Village  229 

self  up  as  a parrot  does.  Not  so  with  the  young  blue 
herons;  they  are  as  awkward  about  the  limbs  of  the  trees 
as  their  parents  are  stately  in  moving  through  the  air. 
When  overbalanced  on  a limb  they  often  fall  to  the 
ground. 

The  young  birds  of  both  species  seem  instinctively  to 
know  that  falling  from  the  trees  to  the  ground  below 
means  death.  Not  because  they  are  hurt  in  the  least  by 
the  fall,  but  because  the  old  birds  never  descend  to  the 
ground  below  the  nest  tree.  The  ground  under  the  trees 
was  strewn  with  the  dead  bodies  of  young  birds.  The 
young  are  fed  only  in  the  tree-top,  and  those  below  starve 
in  the  very  sight  of  their  parents. 

Several  times  we  saw  young  night  herons  hanging 
dead  in  the  branches  of  the  trees.  In  one  tree  we  found 
two  of  these  youngsters  hanging  side  by  side  only  a foot 
apart.  In  walking  about  the  limbs,  the  larger  of  the  two 
birds  had  caught  its  foot  in  a crotch  and  hung  itself  head 
downward.  That,  in  itself,  was  not  unusual,  but  the  second 
bird  hung  by  the  neck  only  a few  inches  away.  It  seems 
that  this  smaller  heron  had  hung  himself  dead  rather  than 
fall  to  the  ground;  he  had  fallen  or  overbalanced  on  the 
small  limb  and,  as  is  the  custom,  had  hooked  his  chin 
over  the  branch  to  keep  from  falling  to  the  ground.  His 
clutched  right  foot  showed  that  the  death  struggle  had 
been  a reaching  and  stretching  to  gain  the  limb.  The 
head  was  not  caught  between  the  branches  as  was  the 
other  bird’s  foot,  but  was  simply  hooked  over  the  bend  in 
the  twig.  Had  he  thrown  his  head  back  a little  he  would 
have  dropped  to  the  ground.  We  demonstrated  this  by 
turning  the  bill  to  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  and  the 


230 


American  Birds 


body  dropped  to  the  bushes  twenty  feet  below.  How  the 
bird  could  have  held  the  rigid  position  of  the  neck  through- 
out its  death  struggle  I could  not  understand,  unless  it 
was  a case  where  the  force  of  instinct  was  strong  even  to 
death. 

The  last  trip  we  made  to  the  heronry  we  found  the 
limbs  of  the  sycamores  as  well  loaded  with  young  herons 
as  a good  apple  tree  is  loaded  with  fruit.  The  moment 
we  started  to  climb  the  tree  with  our  cameras  was  the  sig- 
nal for  the  breaking  loose  of  a squawking  bedlam.  Young 
squawks  jabbered  all  sorts  of  epithets  from  the  nest  edge 
and  retreated  along  the  limbs  as  we  drew  nearer.  The 
young  blue  herons  savagely  disputed  every  foot  of  the  way. 
They  aimed  a fusillade  of  stabs  at  us  from  all  sides,  and 
we  took  great  care  not  to  get  within  reach  of  their 
weapons.  When  we  did  get  into  the  tree-top  it  took 
some  little  time  to  oust  a pair  of  enraged  youngsters  so 
that  we  could  sit  in  their  nest  and  aim  the  camera  at  the 
birds  about. 

It  was  considerable  trouble  for  us  to  get  a series  of 
heron  pictures.  We  suffered  and  scratched  for  weeks  with 
a miserable  rash  from  the  poison  oak,  but  we  made  five 
long  trips  to  the  heron  village.  The  last  trips  through  the 
jungle  were  not  as  difficult  as  the  first;  we  had  the  begin- 
ning of  a path  and  we  took  poison  oak  preventives: 
gloved  our  hands  and  veiled  our  faces.  But  it  was  worth 
it  all  just  to  get  a clear  idea  of  what  life  is  in  a big  heronry. 
It  was  a sight  for  the  soul  just  to  watch  the  great  blue 
herons;  the  long,  slow  wing-beats  as  they  flapped  in  from 
the  feeding-grounds;  then  the  picture  of  quiet  restfulness 
as  they  lounged  about  their  nests  after  the  day’s  work. 


In  a Heron  Village 


231 


THE  HERON  FAMILY 

The  herons  are  wading  birds  that  may  be  found  along  the  banks 
of  rivers,  ponds,  and  through  the  marshes.  The  Great  Blue  Heron  is  a 
bird  of  great  size,  about  four  feet  in  length,  with  long  neck  and  legs. 
With  long,  spearlike  bill,  the  bird  wades  stealthily  watching  for  fish. 
It  has  a heavy  flight,  moving  along  with  big,  slowly  flapping  wings. 
The  Night  Herons  are  much  smaller,  only  half  the  size  of  a blue  heron, 
and  may  be  recognized  by  the  stout  bill  and  short,  thick  neck. 

Great  Blue  Heron  ( Ardea  herodias ):  Male  and  female,  upper  parts, 
bluish-gray;  top  of  head  white  with  long,  black  crest;  feathers  about  neck, 
long  and  loose;  shoulders,  black  striped  with  gray;  under  parts,  streaked 
with  black  and  white;  thighs  and  edge  of  wings,  cinnamon-brown. 
Ranges  through  North  America  at  large  and  can  be  recognized  by  its 
large  size  and  long  legs.  Nests  in  colonies,  generally  in  tall  trees.  Three 
or  four  large  eggs  of  bluish-green. 

Black-crowned  Night  Heron  (N yeti  cor  ax  nycticorax  ncevius ), 
Squawk:  Male  and  female,  crown  and  back,  black;  wings  and  tails 
ashy-gray;  forehead  and  throat,  white,  shading  into  light  gray  on  side, 
and  under  parts.  Common  summer  resident  on  Pacific  and  Atlantic 
Coast,  arriving  in  April  and  staying  till  October.  Nest,  a mere  platform 
of  sticks  in  the  tree-top.  Eggs,  three  or  four,  pale  sea-green. 


THE  EAGLE  OF  MISSION  RIDGE 


XXI 


THE  EAGLE  OF  MISSION  RIDGE 

MANY  years  ago  a pair  of  Golden  Eagles  ( Aquila 
chrysaetus)  came  to  live  on  the  southern  rim  of 
Mission  Ridge.  The  good  people  of  the  lower  slopes 
said  the  birds  were  there  before  they  came.  The  nest 
was  first  found  by  an  egg  collector  in  the  early  nine- 
ties, and  for  several  years  the  big  birds  were  robbed. 
Then  the  eagles  would  have  no  more  of  this  and  left  their 
aerie.  But  each  year  they  were  seen  about  their  old  hunt- 
ing-ground. The  new  aerie  was  still  somewhere  about  the 
ridge,  and  this  was  the  object  of  our  quest.  We  wanted 
to  study  and  photograph  this  royal  pair  of  birds. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  March  when 
we  boarded  the  south  bound  train  at  Oakland  and  landed 
in  a fertile,  hilly  district.  With  our  cameras  strapped 
to  our  backs  we  wheeled  rapidly  over  the  first  few  miles 
of  road,  but  had  to  pile  our  bicycles  in  the  brush  about 
sun-up. 

The  spring  rains  had  not  yet  ceased.  The  grass- 
covered  fields  were  soft  and  springy  under  foot.  A rich, 
earthy  odor  breathed  gently  up,  and  the  nostrils  failed  not 
to  take  eager  note  of  it.  The  air  seemed  to  vibrate  at 
every  sound  or  motion.  A band  of  red-wings  held  a song 
service  just  down  the  hill  where  the  lush  grasses  grew. 
Meadow  larks  piped  and  w'histled,  blue  jays  squawked, 

235 


American  Birds 


236 

and  hummingbirds  flashed  about  newly  opened  flowers. 
As  we  ascended  out  of  the  cultivated  district  the  hills  were 
splashed  and  streaked  with  yellows  and  blues  and  purples 
of  the  wild  flowers — golden  poppies,  yellow  mustard,  and 
buttercups  and  purple  lupines.  Further  up  the  road  ceased 
and  we  had  to  follow  a cow  trail.  After  we  reached  the 
highest  shoulder  of  the  range  we  found  the  surface  rocky 
and  broken.  There  was  scarcely  any  vegetation  on  the 
ridge  except  a scraggly  growth  of  poison  oak  and  chapar- 
ral. We  stood  long  and  gazed  at  the  wide  stretch  of  the 
whole  valley.  Far  below  and  reaching  inland  from  the 
lower  end  of  San  Francisco  Bay  the  ribbonlike  sloughs 
wound  in  and  out,  reaching  far  back  like  the  tentacles  of 
a huge  octopus. 

At  the  very  top  of  the  range  the  mountain  breaks 
abruptly  off  into  the  head  of  the  big  canon.  This  is  the 
native  haunt  of  the  golden  eagle.  A large  sycamore  tree 
is  rooted  in  the  bed  of  the  little  stream.  Four  good-sized 
trunks  rise  from  the  giant  roots.  To  the  branch  bending 
toward  the  valley,  above  the  steep  rocky  slope,  the  eagles 
had  carried  a small  cart-load  of  sticks  and  worked  them 
into  the  forks  where  they  branched,  horizontal  to  the 
ground.  It  was  a platform  five  feet  across,  not  care- 
lessly put  together,  but  each  stick  woven  in  to  add 
strength  to  the  whole  structure,  as  the  stones  are  built 
into  a castle. 

Climbing  one  of  the  other  trees  the  photographer  put 
up  a tiny  platform  in  the  topmost  branches,  where  the 
camera  was  fastened  and  aimed  downward  at  the  aerie 
twenty  feet  away.  Nor  was  it  an  easy  matter  to  photo- 
graph in  the  top  limbs  of  that  sycamore,  where  a wrong 


The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge  237 

move  might  land  camera  and  all  in  the  bed  of  the  canon. 
But  for  six  different  trips,  extending  over  a period  of  two 
months  and  a half,  we  took  pictures  from  this  position 
and  from  the  limbs  near  it. 

“ Did  the  old  eagle  show  fight?  ” is  the  first  question 
put  by  the  usual  listener.  I always  see  a trace  of  disap- 
pointment sweep  over  his  face  when  he  hears  the  answer. 
The  moment  you  speak  of  climbing  to  an  eagle’s  aerie  the 
average  man  gets  an  idea  of  the  photographer  hanging  to 
the  edge  of  a cliff  or  the  top  of  a tree,  with  the  old  eagles 
clawing  out  pound  chunks  at  every  swoop.  Few  eagles 
possess  the  mad  ferocity  pictured  and  magnified  by  sen- 
sational story  tellers.  When  we  first  scrambled  over 
the  bowlders  of  the  canon  up  toward  the  nest,  I saw 
the  old  eagle  slip  quietly  from  her  eggs  and  skim  out 
over  the  mountain  top.  When  I strapped  on  the  climb- 
ers to  ascend  the  tree,  I had  one  eye  open  for  trouble. 
But  each  time  we  visited  the  spot  the  parents  silently  dis- 
appeared, and  stayed  away  as  long  as  we  cared  to  remain. 
They  kept  a watchful  eye,  however,  from  the  blue  distance 
overhead.  For  a noble  bird  like  the  eagle  this  forsaking 
of  the  nest  and  young  seemed  cowardly  at  first.  But 
perhaps  the  long  years  of  persecution  have  taught  him 
something.  The  first  rule  of  safety  of  this  pair  seemed  to 
be  to  keep  half  a mile  distant  from  man,  the  animal  that 
lights  with  neither  beak  nor  claw. 

Our  work  at  the  eagles’  nest  shows  well  the  necessity 
of  a good  series  of  lenses  when  one  is  photographing  in 
the  tree-tops.  The  camera  was  fastened  in  a crotch  in  an 
adjoining  tree,  twenty  feet  from  the  nest,  where  it  could 
not  be  moved  forward  or  back.  By  adjusting  the  wide- 


American  Birds 


238 

angle  lens  we  could  get  a view  of  the  nest  and  surrounding 
limbs,  and  at  the  same  time  have  a depth  of  focus  that 
showed  the  outline  of  the  valley  lying  miles  below.  By 
the  use  of  the  regular  lens  the  nest  was  brought  nearer 
the  camera,  and  still  the  sweep  of  the  rocky  side  of  the 
canon  was  retained.  The  single  rear  lens  gave  a differ- 
ent picture,  narrowed  down  to  the  outer  end  of  the  large 
limb  containing  the  nest.  Our  telephoto  lens  had  the 
power  of  bringing  the  nest  as  close  as  we  cared  to  photo- 
graph it,  covering  the  full  size  of  a 5x7  plate  and  giving 
a clear  definition  of  the  lining  of  the  nest. 

One  cannot  help  feeling  the  dangers  of  climbing  about 
the  limbs  of  a tall  tree,  but  it  always  doubles  his  caution 
when  he  has  to  maneuver  in  the  topmost  boughs,  carrying 
a camera  that  has  cost  him  over  two  hundred  dollars.  One 
day  we  narrowly  escaped  an  expensive  accident.  We  were 
hoisting  our  cameras  and  half  way  up  one  of  the  lines 
broke.  Fortunately  I was  below,  ready  for  such  a mis- 
chance, and  as  the  camera  shot  downward  T spread  my 
hands  in  the  nick  of  time  to  stop  the  fall.  It  knocked  me 
backward,  and  the  camera  would  have  bounded  over  the 
edge  of  the  bank  and  been  smashed  on  the  rocks  fourteen 
feet  below  had  my  fingers  not  closed  on  the  piece  of  rope 
as  it  slipped  through  my  hand. 

The  golden  eagles  are  mated  for  life.  During  the 
month  of  February  the  aerie  was  recarpeted  with  small 
twigs  and  dry  leaves,  for  the  eagles  of  the  summer  before 
had  worn  it  down  to  a rough  platform  of  sticks.  A hol- 
low of  this  soft  material  was  made  in  the  middle  for  the 
eggs,  and  a branch  of  green  laurel  was  added.  Later  on 
when  I removed  this  branch  of  evergreen  it  was  promptly 


The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge  239 

replaced  by  another  piece  that  had  been  wrenched  from 
the  living  tree  by  the  eagle.  When  this  second  piece  had 
dried  still  another  branch  was  added.  This  badge  of 
green  seems  to  be  as  necessary  in  the  eagle’s  home  as  the 
sacred  Lares  at  the  Roman  fireside. 

At  this  time  the  pair  of  great  eagles  were  inseparable, 
and  they  generally  hunted  together.  For  days  before  the 
mother  cradled  her  eggs  they  sat  for  hours  at  a time  close 
together  on  a great  limb  near  the  aerie.  They  had  several 
such  favorite  perches  where  they  sat  and  watched  the 
rugged  mountain  sides  for  food.  They  were  far  up  the 
slope  where  they  could  look  off  over  the  whole  sweep  of 
the  ridge. 

The  fog  was  hanging  heavy  and  wet  as  we  climbed 
slowly  up  the  mountain  the  second  time,  and  the  tall  grass 
and  bushes  drenched  us  at  every  step.  We  had  started 
under  a clear  sky  with  the  stars  shining,  before  the  first 
streak  of  dawn  appeared  in  the  east.  At  daybreak  the  cool 
breath  of  the  sea  air  began  to  sweep  in  through  the 
Golden  Gate  and  up  the  valley,  carrying  and  lifting  the 
fog  as  it  came.  And  as  the  last  mist  clouds  were  swept 
along  with  their  fingers  trailing  in  the  scraggly  bushes,  the 
great  eagle  with  his  crown  of  burnished  gold  floated  out 
from  the  head  of  the  canon.  It  was  his  duty  to  forage. 
The  mate  of  sombre  black  stayed  on  the  nest.  She  had  not 
left  since  yesterday  noon.  For  over  four  weeks  she  had 
warmed  the  two  eggs,  and  now  she  had  twin  eaglets  at  her 
breast.  Instead  of  leaving  her  young  when  we  were  half 
a mile  down  the  canon,  as  she  did  when  the  nest  contained 
eggs,  the  mother  crouched  flat  down  while  we  climbed  the 
mountain  side  above  the  tree  and  looked  at  her  through 


240 


American  Birds 


the  field-glass.  But  she  slid  off  soon  after  and  sailed  away 
when  we  started  to  climb  the  tree. 

Sixteen  days  later  we  were  in  the  big  sycamore  again. 
By  that  time  the  eaglets  had  grown  from  the  size  of  an 
egg  to  that  of  an  ordinary  chicken,  but  they  had  not  begun 
to  change  from  the  color  of  snowy  white.  They  lay 
crouched  in  the  nest,  clumsy  in  body,  and  watched  us 
angrily  with  their  wild  dark  eyes.  They  resented  my  com- 
pany when  I climbed  into  the  nest  and  planted  the  camera 
right  beside  them.  At  that  time  they  were  not  strong 
enough  to  offer  much  resistance;  they  could  not  help  being 
imposed  upon.  They  endured  silently,  laying  up  wrath 
for  the  days  of  strength  when  they  could  strike  a blow 
that  would  bring  the  blood. 

The  growth  of  the  young  eagles  was  very  slow  but 
steady.  Fifteen  days  after  our  last  visit  we  found  that 
the  stiff,  black  feathers  were  beginning  to  push  their  way 
through  the  thick  coat  of  white  down,  and  the  eaglets 
took  on  a mottled  appearance. 

When  we  again  started  up  the  mountain  to  visit  the 
aerie  we  struck  a heavy  wind-storm  driving  down  over 
the  hills.  We  could  hardly  climb  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale. 
I can  never  forget  the  sensation  as  we  crossed  through  the 
last  fields  of  standing  grain.  The  wind  cracked  and  lashed 
the  tall  stalks  till  it  seemed  we  were  in  the  midst  of  rag- 
ing waters.  From  the  ridge  we  sat  and  watched  the 
enormous  silvery  serpents  that  wriggled  up  and  down 
through  the  standing  grain,  as  gust  after  gust  swept  along 
the  slope.  Where  the  grain  had  been  cut  and  shocked 
the  gale  created  havoc  by  scattering  it  broadcast  down 
the  mountain  side.  But  the  most  difficult  task  was  to 


The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge  241 

climb  the  eagles’  tree  and  get  pictures  in  the  swaying 
branches. 

We  found  the  golden  eagle  a valuable  inhabitant  of 
any  cattle-range  or  farming  community.  His  food  con- 
sists almost  entirely  of  the  ground  squirrels  that  are  so 
abundant  through  the  California  hills  and  cause  such  dam- 
age in  the  grain-fields.  Once  when  we  looked  into  the  nest 
wre  found  the  remains  of  the  bodies  of  four  squirrels  lying 
on  its  rim.  At  each  visit  we  examined  the  food  remains 
about  the  nest,  and  I am  sure  that  a very  large  amount 
of  the  eagle’s  food,  if  not  all,  consisted  of  squirrels.  The 
hills  in  many  places  were  full  of  their  burrows,  and  the 
eagles  seemed  to  have  regular  watch-towers  on  the  high 
rocks  about,  from  which  they  swooped  down  on  their  prey. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  birds  of  prey  about  these  hilly  dis- 
tricts, some  of  the  places  would  surely  be  overrun  with 
harmful  creatures  of  the  ground. 

I am  satisfied  that  this  family  of  eagles  ate  six  ground 
squirrels  a day  during  the  period  of  nesting,  and  very 
likely  more  than  that.  Those  young  growing  eagles 
surely  needed  a fair  amount  of  food  each  day  for  about 
three  months,  and  they  were  well  supplied,  to  say  nothing 
of  what  the  old  birds  ate.  But  even  this  low  estimate 
would  mean  the  destruction  of  five  hundred  and  forty 
squirrels  along  the  hillsides  in  about  three  months’  time. 
What  would  be  the  total  if  we  estimated  the  killing  for 
the  entire  year?  This  is  the  permanent  home  of  the 
eagles  and  of  all  the  families  of  hawks  and  owls  along 
the  hills  and  canons. 

Near  the  end  of  our  visits  to  the  eagles’  nest  the  coun- 
try had  changed  its  appearance.  The  hillsides  had  lost 


242 


American  Birds 


the  color  of  green.  The  sun  had  baked  the  pasture-land 
into  granite  hardness.  Every  blade  of  grass  was  burned 
dry  and  crisp,  making  the  steep  slopes  almost  too  slippery 
for  foothold.  The  heat  of  the  sun’s  rays  had  licked  up 
every  drop  of  water  in  the  long  series  of  side  canons 
through  which  we  had  to  pass.  With  our  heavy  cameras 
on  our  backs  we  struggled  slowly  up  the  rugged  slopes, 
slipping  and  perspiring,  our  tongues  parched  with  thirst. 
At  dark  we  ate  our  supper  and  gladly  stretched  ourselves 
under  a tree  for  the  night,  a mile  down  the  canon  from 
the  eagles. 

When  the  first  gray  light  of  the  morning  crept  down 
the  western  slope  of  Mission  Ridge  the  king  and  his  wide- 
winged mate  soared  out  over  the  shadow  of  the  sleep- 
ing world.  The  nestlings  were  almost  full-grown.  They 
stirred  about  and  kept  a hungry  lookout  from  the  nest 
edge  and  the  great  limb-perch  of  the  parents.  At  the  first 
sight  of  food  they  lifted  their  wings  in  strange  and  savage 
ecstasy.  They  were  no  longer  fed,  nor  did  they  share  the 
headless  body  of  the  squirrel  that  was  dropped  in  the  aerie. 
One  rended  it  in  bloody  strips  and  swallowed  it  in  gulps, 
while  the  other  held  -sullenly  aloof,  awaiting  the  return 
of  the  mate  with  its  breakfast. 

I cannot  imagine  even  a touch  of  humor  in  the  life 
of  the  eagle.  A pair  of  blue  jays  nested  near  the  eagles, 
and  I imagine  they  came  sneaking  around  at  times  when 
the  parents  were  not  at  home,  just  to  see  what  was 
going  on.  One  day  I was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
nest  with  my  feet  dangling  over,  when  one  of  the  curious 
jays  came  up  from  behind.  He  didn’t  notice  me  till 
he  alighted,  squawking,  close  by.  His  squawking-valve 


The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge 


243 


closed  short  off  with  a squeak  of  surprise;  he  threw  up 
his  wings  in  horror  and  fell  backward.  The  blue  jay 
himself  would  have  chuckled  in  enjoyment  at  the  sight, 
if  the  joke  had  not  been  on  him.  I enjoyed  it  hugely,  but 
it  was  all  Greek  to  the  eagles.  Everything  to  them  is 
serious.  Life  is  a cruel,  harsh  reality;  it  is  blood  from 
birth  to  death. 

The  golden  eagle  appeals  to  me  as  a real  baron  of 
the  middle  ages,  with  his  castle  and  his  hunting  preserve. 
The  sycamore  is  his  permanent  home,  the  heavens  above 
the  ridge  and  the  low-lying  fields  are  his  with  no  ques- 
tioning, summer  and  winter.  He  is  more  than  a match 
for  any  animal  of  his  size.  Not  a beast  of  the  field  nor 
a fowl  of  the  air  can  drive  him  out;  he  stands  firm  before 
every  earthly  power,  except  the  hand  of  man.  He  is  shy 
and  wary  at  all  times,  clean  and  handsome,  swift  in  flight, 
and  strong  in  body.  An  experience  gained  in  the  fiercest 
of  schools  makes  the  eagle  as  formidable  as  any  creature 
of  the  wild  outdoor. 

The  eagles  revolted  at  the  sight  of  a human  being. 
They  opened  their  mouths  in  defiance  when  we  first  looked 
over  the  nest  edge,  nor  were  they  one  whit  less  savage  for 
all  our  visits.  From  the  first  they  would  have  rent  to 
shreds  the  hand  that  dared  touch  them.  They  submitted 
to  us  as  a caged  lion  endures  his  keeper.  Meekness  and 
mercy  are  no  part  of  the  life  of  the  eagle.  Theirs  was  a 
savage  spirit  that  could  no  more  be  tamed  by  the  human 
hand  than  could  the  hooked  beak  and  claws  be  changed. 
Deep-set  under  each  shaggy  brow  was  an  eye  of  piercing 
glare,  that  seemed  always  searching  the  far-away  blue  of 
the  distance.  It  was  the  eye  of  an  eagle,  and  nothing  else 


244 


American  Birds 


can  describe  it.  After  three  months  of  human  acquaint- 
ance, it  was  the  real  king  of  birds  that  left  the  birthplace, 
never  again  to  be  touched  alive  by  the  hand  of  man. 

The  golden  eagle  was  formerly  found  east  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi as  well  as  west,  but  it  does  not  now  frequent  the 
more  settled  portions.  A single  pair  may  still  live  in  the 
wildest  regions  of  New  England  or  northern  New  York, 
or  a few  may  still  have  their  homes  in  the  mountains  of 
the  two  Virginias,  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  Georgia,  or  the 
Carolinas.  The  bird  is  not  common  anywhere,  yet  it  is 
still  found  in  the  mountainous  regions  of  the  West,  es- 
pecially in  portions  of  California.  In  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains the  golden  eagle  often  builds  its  nest  on  the  high 
cliffs,  but  in  California  and  Oregon  its  favorite  nesting 
sites  are  the  pines,  oaks,  or  sycamores  of  the  deep  canons 
or  the  rugged  slopes. 

Although  still  found  in  the  wilder  regions  of  Califor- 
nia these  birds  have  suffered  a great  deal  from  collectors 
during  the  last  decade.  Their  habit  of  occupying  the  same 
aerie  year  after  year  enables  the  collector,  after  once  lo- 
cating the  nest,  to  make  his  yearly  raid  to  advantage,  as 
the  eggs  are  rare  enough  to  have  a good  market  value. 
One  nest  was  robbed  for  three  successive  years  and  the 
female  killed,  but  the  male  secured  another  mate  and  kept 
the  same  nest  the  following  season.  But  where  the  eagles 
are  robbed  continually  for  several  years  they  are  sure  to 
be  driven  away.  They  have  entirely  disappeared  from 
certain  places  where  they  were  once  regular  residents. 

In  several  cases  I have  known  the  golden  eagle  to 
show  as  marked  an  individuality  as  a person.  In  one  aerie 
that  was  used  a pair  of  birds  showed  a peculiar  liking  for 


The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge  245 

a bulbous  plant,  commonly  known  as  the  Spanish  soap- 
root,  and  every  year  they  adorned  the  nest  with  the  large 
hairlike  top  of  this  plant.  Another  case  is  on  record 
where  the  eagle  had  a peculiar  liking  for  grain  sacks,  which 
were  used  in  the  lining  of  the  nest.  The  first  time  this  nest 
was  discovered  it  contained  a large  grain  sack,  but  the 
storms  of  the  following  winter  dislodged  the  nest.  The 
new  nest  that  was  built  the  following  year  was  again  lined 
with  a grain  sack. 

It  is  often  the  case  that  a pair  of  eagles  will  inhabit 
the  same  locality  for  several  years  and  make  no  attempt 
at  rearing  a brood.  Perhaps  these  are  young  eagles;  many 
birds  do  not  breed  till  after  the  second  or  third  year.  In 
other  instances,  a pair  will  repair  an  old  nest  and  stay 
about  all  the  nesting  season,  and  yet  not  go  to  housekeep- 
ing. In  a few  rare  instances  the  golden  eagle  has  been 
known  to  lay  three  eggs,  but  two  is  the  usual  number. 

What  does  such  a series  of  pictures  represent?  Three 
months  of  patient  waiting,  varied  by  six  long  mountain 
trips  of  two  days  each;  backaching  tramps  up  trails  to  the 
summit  of  a rock-strewn  ridge,  with  a heavy  camera  equip- 
ment; and  the  snapping  of  over  a hundred  5x7  plates,  ex- 
posed at  every  available  view  of  the  stronghold  from  terra 
firma  to  tree-top. 

We  made  a careful  study  of  the  nesting  habits  of  a 
finch  to  serve  as  a comparison  between  the  small  seed- 
eating birds  and  the  largest  birds  of  prey.  I found  the 
finch  building  its  nest  and  watched  it  closely.  The  home 
was  lined  and  completed  June  24th.  It  contained  three 
eggs  on  the  twenty-seventh.  On  July  6th  the  eggs 
hatched,  and  the  young  were  able  to  leave  the  nest  July 


American  Birds 


246 

1 6th.  In  other  words,  It  took  nineteen  days  for  the  finches 
to  hatch  the  eggs  and  rear  the  family,  or  about  four  weeks 
to  build  a nest  and  send  the  young  birds  forth  into  the 
world. 

How  does  the  eagle  compare  with  the  finch  ? The 
same  aerie  was  used  year  after  year.  Two  dull  white 
eggs,  shell-marked  with  brown,  were  laid  the  first  week  of 
March,  just  as  the  sycamore  was  beginning  to  bud  out. 
The  period  of  incubation  lasted  about  a month,  for  the 
eggs  were  not  hatched  till  the  third  of  April.  The  eaglets 
were  covered  with  soft,  white  down  soon  after  hatching. 
White  is  not  the  color  for  a hunter,  but  these  snowy  gar- 
ments lasted  for  a full  month,  during  which  the  youngsters 
grew  from  the  egg  to  the  size  and  weight  of  a large  hen. 
The  first  week  in  May  black  pin-feathers  began  to  push 
up  through  the  down,  first  appearing  on  the  wings  and 
back.  Week  after  week  the  stiff  feathers  grew,  but  they 
came  slowly,  covering  the  back,  wings,  head,  and  neck, 
until  by  the  first  week  of  June  the  eaglets  were  fairly  well 
clothed  in  a bristling  suit  of  dark  brown  and  black,  except 
for  a small  white  shirt  front.  The  wings  and  feet  were 
still  weak.  It  required  over  three  weeks  longer  for  the 
wing  feathers  to  gain  strength  and  the  feet  to  grow  pow- 
erful enough  for  the  birds  to  handle  their  heavy  bodies. 
So,  where  the  finch  required  four  weeks  to  rear  a family, 
it  took  the  eagle  a good  four  months. 

THE  EAGLE  FAMILY 

The  largest  bird  of  prey,  known  as  king  among  birds.  A bird  of 
great  size  and  powerful  on  the  wing.  It  is  a rare  occasion  when  one  gets 
a near  view  of  one  of  these  wild  birds;  they  are  often  seen  high  in  the 


The  Eagle  of  Mission  Ridge  247 

air,  where  they  soar  in  great  circles.  Length,  about  three  feet;  extent, 
about  seven  feet.  Female  larger  than  male. 

Bald  Eagle  ( Hahaetus  leucocephalus),  Bird  of  Washington,  selected 
as  our  national  emblem:  Male  and  female,  head,  neck,  and  tail,  snowy- 
white,  rest  of  plumage  blackish  or  dark  brownish.  The  young  birds 
during  the  first  year  are  wholly  black.  Lives  largely  on  fish,  diving 
for  them,  stealing  them  from  the  fish  hawk,  or  finding  dead  fish  cast  up 
by  the  waves.  Lives  throughout  the  United  States. 

Golden  Eagle  ( Aqutla  cbrysaetus):  Male  and  female,  entire  plumage 
dark  brown;  back  of  neck  and  feathers  on  legs  lighter  brown;  legs  feath- 
ered to  toes.  Lives  in  the  wilder  parts  of  North  America,  where  it 
builds  a big  platform  nest  in  trees  or  on  the  ledge  of  a cliff.  Eggs,  gen- 
erally two,  whitish,  marked  with  blotches  of  brown  and  gray.  Lives 
largely  on  mammals  and  birds,  including  squirrels,  prairie-dogs,  rabbits, 
grouse,  and  water-fowl. 


INDEX 


A 


PAGE 

American  Barn  Owl 81-88 

Crow 69-77 

Redstart 1 34 

Robin 208 

Anna  Hummingbird 11-12 

Audubon  Warbler 135 


Bald  Eagle 

Baltimore  Oriole 

Barn  Owl 

Bee-martin 

Belted  Kingfisher 

Bird  of  Washington 

Black  and  White  Warbler 

Blackbird 

Blackburnian  Warbler 

Black-capped  Titmouse 

Black-chinned  Hummingbird.. 
Black-crowned  Night  Heron. . . 

Black-headed  Grosbeak 

Black  Phoebe 

Black-poll  Warbler 

Black-throated  Gray  Warbler. 
Black-throated  Green  Warbler 
Bluebird 


B 


...  247 

...  185 
. .81-88 
...  195 

I39-H7 
. . . 247 
134 
74,  206 
■ 134 
16 


221-231 

45-53 

'95 

i34 

127 -'35 

'34 

'57,  i63>  165-172 


249 


250 


Index 


PAGE 

Bluebird,  Western 172 

Blue  Jay 129,  163-165 

Blue-winged  Warbler 134 

Brown  Pelican 215,  216 

Bullock  Oriole 179-185 

Bush-tit 105-111 

Butcher-bird 1 15-123 


c 


California  Jay 171 

Shrike 1 15-123 

Cardinal 45 

Cassin  Vireo 179,  185 

Chestnut-sided  Warbler 134 

Chickadee 15-22,  109 

“ Western 22 

Chicken-hawk 57,  60 

Chippie 160 

Chipping  Sparrow 160 

Cooper  Hawk 41 

Cormorant 74>  225 

Crane 224 

Crow 74,  205 

“ American 69-7 7 

Cuckoo 205 


Dove 


D 


205 


E 

Eagle,  Bald 

“ Golden 

English  Sparrow 


274 

235-247 

81,  151,  156-160 


Index  251 

F 

PAGE 

Finch 245-246 

“ House 189 

Flicker 21,  35,  142 

“ Red-shafted 25-32 

Flycatcher 47 

G 

Golden  Eagle 235-247 

Golden-winged  Woodpecker 32 

Great  Blue  Heron 221-231 

Grosbeak 35,  139,  205 

Black-headed 45-53 

“ Rose-breasted 46,  52 

Gull 74,  225 

“ Herring 217 

“ Western 211-217 

H 

Hair- bird 160 

Hang-nest 185 

Hawk,  Cooper 41 

“ Red 65 

“ Red-tailed 57,  65 

“ Sparrow 213 

“ Western  Red-tailed 57—65 

Hen  Hawk 65 

Hermit  Thrush 200 

Heron,  Black-crowned  Night 221-231 

“ Great  Blue 221-231 

Herring  Gull 217 

High-hole 25 -32 

House  Finch 189 


252 


Index 


PAGE 

House  Sparrow 159-160 

“ Wren 101 

Hummingbird 139 

Anna II-12 

Black-chinned 176 

Ruby-throated 10,  n 

Rufous 3-1 1,  176 


J 


Jay 205 

“ Blue 129,  163-165,  1 7 1 , 242 

California 171 


K 


Kingbird 195 

Kingfisher,  Belted 139-147 


L 


Lark,  Meadow 35 

Least  Vireo 185 

Linnet,  Red-headed 190 

Linnet  (House  Finch) 189-191,  195 

Lutescent  Warbler 135 


M 


Macgillivray  Warbler 41 

Maryland  Yellow-throat 41 

Meadow  Lark 35 

Mockingbird 118,  119 

Mourning  Warbler 41 

Myrtle  Warbler 135 


Index  253 

N 

PAGE 

Nashville  Warbler 134 

Nighthawk 139 

Northern  Shrike 123 

Nuthatch,  Red-breasted 93 

O 

Olive-backed  Thrush 208 

Oriole 204,  205 

“ Baltimore 185 

“ Bullock 179-185 

Osprey 62 

Owl 47 

“ Barn 81-88 

P 

Parkman  Wren 92,  101,  157 

Parula  Warbler 134 

Pelican 74,  225 

“ Brown 215,  216 

Pewee,  Wood.  . . . _ 195 

Phoebe 195 

“ Black 189-195 

R 

Red-bird 45 

Red-breasted  Nuthatch 93 

Red-eyed  Vireo 185 

Red-hammer 25,  2 7,  28 

Red  Hawk 65 

Red-headed  Linnet 190 

Red-shafted  Flicker 25-32 

Redstart,  American 134 

Red-tailed  Hawk 57,  65 


254 


Index 


PAGE 

Robin,  American 208 

“ Western 47,  48,  199-208 

Rose-breasted  Grosbeak 46,  52 

Ruby-throated  Hummingbird 10,  11 

Rufous  Hummingbird 3-11,  176 

Russet-backed  Thrush 199-203,  208 

S 

Screech  Owl 64 

Shrike,  California 115-123 

“ Northern 123 

“ White-rumped 123 

Snipe 139 

Song  Sparrow 95,  151-153,  160 

Sparrow,  Chipping 160 

English 81,  1 51 , 156-160 

Hawk 213 

House 159,  160 

Song 95,  151-153,  160 

White-crowned 151,153-156,160 

White-throated 160 

Squawk 226,  228,  231 

Street  Gamin 159,  160 

Swallow 74,  165 

Summer  Yellow-bird 134 

T 

Tern 74,  225 

Thrush 48 

“ Hermit 200 

“ Olive-backed 208 

“ Russet-backed 199-203,  208 

“ Veery 200,  208 

“ Wilson 208 


Index  255 

PAGE 

Thrush,  Wood 200,  208 

Titmouse,  Black-capped 16 

Tramp I59>  I^° 

V 

Veeiy  (Thrush) 200,  208 

Vigors  Wren 91-101 

Vireo 205 

Cassin 179,185 

“ Least 185 

“ Red-eyed 185 

“ Warbling 176-179,  184 

“ White-eyed 185 

“ Yellow-throated 185 

W 

Warbler 29,  205 

“ Audubon 135 

“ Black  and  White 134 

“ Blackburnian 134 

“ Black-poll 134 

“ Black-throated  Gray 127-135 

Black-throated  Green 134 

Blue-winged 134 

“ Chestnut-sided 134 

“ Lutescent 135 

“ Macgillivray 41 

“ Mourning 41 

“ Myrtle 135 

“ Nashville 134 

“ Parula 134 

Yellow 47,  134,  202,  203 

Warbling  Vireo 176-179,  184 

Western  Bluebird 172 


256 


Index 


Western  Chickadee 

“ Gull 

Herring  Gull 

Red-tailed  Hawk. 

Robin 

Yellow-throat 

White-breasted  Swallow. . 
White-crowned  Sparrow. . . 

White-eyed  Vireo 

White-rumped  Shrike 

White-throated  Sparrow. . 

Wilson  Thrush 

Winter  Wren 

Woodpecker 

Golden-winged 

Wood  Pewee 

Wood  Thrush 

Wren 

“ House 

“ Parkman 

“ Vigors 

“ Winter 


22 

21 1-217 

217 

57-65 

■ -47>  48,  199-208 

35-41 

157 

151,  153-156,  160 
185 

123 

160 

208 

101,  201 

C39 

32 

195 

200,  208 

81,  165,  192 

IOI 

92,  IOI,  157 

91-101 

IOI,  201 


Y 

Yellow-bird,  Summer 

Yellow-hammer 

Yellow-throat 

Maryland 

Western 

Yellow-throated  Vireo 

Yellow  Warbler 


134 

25,  32 

45 

4i 

35-41 

185 

47>  134,  202,  203 


VA 


